


the dream that you wish

by thedeathchamber



Series: Psychic / FBI [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Louis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 07:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8569552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeathchamber/pseuds/thedeathchamber
Summary: FBI Special Agent Harry Styles struggles with a case that involves him at a personal level. Louis adjusts to his new life and continues his on-going struggle with his psychic abilities and what they entail. aka. the sequel to the Medium/Criminal Minds-inspired AU which some people actually asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Referenced past suicide attempt.  
> Mental health issues.  
> The violence is about as explicit as a Criminal Minds episode, so PG-13? But there's references to murder and violent death.  
> I think this one is a little darker than 'once upon a dream' but about as graphic. So if you're not comfortable reading that, you might want to skip this story.
> 
> \--
> 
> Some people asked for more. (Thank you for that!) Inspiration obliged. 
> 
> \--
> 
> This is a sequel.

The cartoon snowman on the paper plate winks at Harry, peeking out behind the two toffee bars that are left. Somehow Harry has ended up alone in a small circle of people whom he doesn’t know and yet insist on asking questions like they’re old friends. The BAU encourages internal communication and cooperation—but usually within a work context.

Gregory, or George, or whatever his name is, asking Harry if he’s working during the holidays feels odd, even if it’s a question to be expected at the office Christmas party. This is a subject he can’t help but warm up to, however, a smile rising to his face.

“Not this year. I’ve got the full week, from the twenty-third till New Year’s Day.”

“Oh, lucky!”

“Big plans?”

Harry understands their excitement; extended time off is rare. “I’d say so: visiting family in California with my boyfriend.”

Caroline, or Carol, laughs. “He must have low standards if those are big plans.”

Harry pouts. “He’s never been to California.” He’s not quite sure why he’s making excuses to a group of strangers. Louis was happy to discover the West Coast, he’d said so. And he’d met Harry’s mum and sister through Skype before, talked to them a few times on the phone as well—they weren’t total strangers. Harry kept reminding himself of these facts whenever he noticed how nervous Louis was about the trip.

“California’s not the problem, mate. It’s the in-laws,” Gregory guffaws, then pats Harry’s arm. “I’m sure your mother is perfectly lovely, though. You have a picture of her at your desk, don’t you?”

A small line appears between Harry’s eyebrows. “Yes, I do.”

It’s an old picture, from before he even left home for college, of his mother showing off her collection of ceramic figurines on the shelves behind her.

One of the other women in the group smiles at him. “I’m sure your boyfriend will have a great time,” she says kindly.

Harry nods absently. “Yeah. Thanks.” He instinctively looks around at the sea of heads in the function room, the lines on his forehead deepening when he fails to catch sight of Louis. “I hope so…”

He trails off, and after another sweep of the room, detaches himself from the group with a quick ‘excuse me’. Louis had needed a bit of coaxing to come to the party, with his aversion to crowds and meeting strangers. It had taken weeks for him to agree to meet Harry’s team when he’d first moved to Quantico. He’d grown close to Nick with time, but Harry had the distinct impression that Cara’s bluntness intimidated him, and he hadn’t quite warmed up to Azoff.

Harry checks his phone for texts or calls, but there are none. Pulling at his bottom lip, he stops and surveys the room, determined to be rational and not think the worst. Louis could have gone to the bathroom, or stepped outside for a bit of air if he was feeling overwhelmed. His eyes fall on the emergency exit that leads to the stairwell, which nobody uses even when the elevators are packed and slow.

He expects the door to screech when he pushes it open, but it doesn’t. He lets it fall closed behind him, squinting in the gloom before he finds the light switch along the bare wall. His breath rushes out in a sigh of relief when he looks up to see Louis sitting on the stairs near the first landing.

“Louis!” Harry climbs the stairs to sit next to him, ignoring the dust on the scuffed, worn floor. “Where were you?”

He places a tentative hand on Louis’ thigh, but nothing else. Up close he can appreciate the blank look on Louis’ face which he’s come to know frequently follows one of his disassociative fugue episodes.

“I don’t know,” Louis says finally, confirming Harry’s suspicions. “Fifth floor, I think? A janitor found me instead of security, so that’s good.” He lets out a weak chuckle and leans against Harry, lacing their fingers together on his lap.

Harry pulls him into a hug, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. It makes him want to cry when he hears Louis’ contained sniffle and feels the rapid fluttering of his eyelashes against his neck.

“It’d been a while,” Harry says softly.

Louis nods, keeping his head tucked in the crook of Harry’s neck.

“It’s OK. I’ve got you.” Harry tightens his arm around him and squeezes his hand.

There’s no creak of the door to alert him, and he’s startled when he looks down and sees Nick at the bottom of the staircase, looking at them with a sympathetic grimace on his face.

“Director Singh is here. You might want to make an appearance, Harold.”

Harry swears under his breath, then nods. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Nick offers him a quick, commiserating smile before he leaves. Harry feels Louis take a deep breath before pulling back from his embrace. When he tilts Harry’s chin to give him a soft kiss, his fingertips are cold on Harry’s skin.

“Big boss wants to shake your hand,” Louis says in a bit of a sing-song, smiling faintly. “I’ll see if I can’t find you some of those toffee bars meanwhile, hm?”

Harry wipes a trace of moisture on Louis’ cheek. “But I wanted to show you off,” he whines, mock petulant. It’s not really a joke, but he knows Louis won’t want to and he doesn’t want to pressure him.

Louis shakes his head, head down, then gets to his feet, pulling Harry up after him. “C’mon. Think positive: you might get a pay rise.”

Harry chuckles and leads them out back into the party.

*

Harry watches Louis sleep for longer than he’d care to admit. Louis is a quiet sleeper when he’s not having one of his dreams: cheek pillowed on his hand; lips a little parted; deep, even breathing. Harry resists the urge to touch him where they aren’t already entangled—sharing a twin bed is a tight fit, though not uncomfortable.

“Happy Birthday,” Harry whispers, smiling, when Louis opens his eyes. “Sleep OK?” he asks, even though he can guess the answer.

Louis nods, a mirroring smile on his own face. “’s your childhood home. Feels safe. I like it here.”

“I like you here.” Harry grins, palms the back of Louis’ neck, warm and soft. “And my mom and Robin are happy to have you here, too.”

Louis runs the tip of his pointer finger over Harry’s jaw. “I’m pretty sure they’re happy to have _you_ here, love. They put up with me. A necessary evil, kind of.”

Harry frowns, nips at Louis’ finger when it reaches his lips. “That’s not true.”

Louis shrugs, displacing Harry’s hand.

“Where is this coming from?” Harry asks gently.

Louis bites his bottom lip. “Thanksgiving. You cut your visit short because of me. Your mom can’t be happy about that, Harry.”

Harry frowns. “Lou. Your sister called me that you were in hospital. My mom was the first one to tell me to get back to you.”

Lottie had been so upset, crying about how she’d poisoned her brother for trying to be original and serving seafood instead of turkey. She’d kept on apologizing for days even though Louis had been fine after a short trip to the ER.

Louis shakes his head. “I should have known I was allergic to shellfish.”

Harry knocks their foreheads together. “I didn’t know you were that kind of psychic,” he teases.

Louis lets out a reluctant laugh. “Idiot.”

Harry raises himself up on one elbow. “My mom knows I love you. She can see you love me. That’s all she cares about.” He glances at the digital alarm clock, a relic of his childhood, on the bedside table, before leaning in to nuzzle Louis’ neck. “We’ve got half an hour before everyone starts waking up.”

Louis slips his hands under Harry’s thin tee shirt. “Are we on a schedule?”

“Mhm.” He kisses up Louis’ neck. “Wake up next to the love of my life—”

He pulls back just enough to smile at Louis, whose face is scrunched up with a mixture of happiness and embarrassment.

“Have a heartfelt talk with the love of my life,” Harry continues, running a hand down the curve of Louis’ spine. “Fuck the love of my life.”

Louis’ breath catches when Harry wriggles his hand under the waistband of Louis’ pajama bottoms to grip his ass, the tips of his fingers brushing against his hole.

“Shower.” Harry goes on with his list, rolling his hips. “Make breakfast for the love of my life—”

“Pancakes?” Louis breathes.

Harry buries his laughter against Louis’ chest. “Is that what you’re interested in?”

Louis tugs at Harry’s shirt. “I could be persuaded to have sausage and eggs, too.”

Harry can’t contain a loud squawk of laughter, and Louis shushes him amid giggles, clapping a hand over Harry’s mouth. “That’s not convincing me, Harold!”

Harry sits up to pull his shirt over his head and throws a leg over Louis to straddle his upper thighs. “I’ll give you a full English breakfast.”

Louis makes a face. “You’re not even English and that is not—” He squeaks when Harry lifts his jumper up to his armpits. “—remotely arousing.”

Harry bends down to lick over one of his nipples, rubbing his hands up and down the warm expanse of his chest. Louis’ fingers dig into the swell over Harry’s hips while they move against each other.

“I’m not getting up to get the lube,” Louis says, later, once Harry’s stripped him of his pajama bottoms so that he’s spread out on the bed, with his jumper still half on and his cock hard against his hip.

“Don’t have to.” Harry gets off the bed to kick off his boxers and reaches into the bedside drawer, pulling out the small bottle. “I was prepared.”

Louis bites back a laugh. “Think a lot of yourself, do you?” 

Harry has to take a moment to stare at Louis in wonder, thinking about how it was at first: their sex tentative and careful on Harry’s part and more than a little stressful on Louis’—always good, though, if not easy. And Harry wouldn’t have minded if that was how it was forever; he was happy with whatever Louis could give him. But as time went on Louis relaxed, and Harry relaxed, and playful, easy sex became a part of their lives. 

Almost a year later now, Louis is joking and drawing Harry close when he climbs back on the bed, hands and mouth eager. Telling Harry to go faster when he’s opening him up. Whimpering ‘that’s good‘ when Harry pushes in and then adding, with a grin, ‘but I still want pancakes'. Giggling between moans as the mattress creaks with Harry’s thrusts.

 

Harry leaves Louis burrowed under the duvet, grumbling about being cold and not wanting to get out of bed, and comes back from the shower to find him asleep. He goes downstairs to get started on breakfast, the house still silent as he takes what he needs out of the fridge. 

A knock on the door startles him; egg yolk pools in his palm and seeps between his fingers. He’s still wiping his fingers when he peers through the peep hole. It’s a delivery man with a package. Harry frowns: the US postal service doesn’t deliver on Christmas Eve. 

The man knocks again, and Harry opens the door just to stop him from waking everyone up.

“Good morning, sir. There’s a package for one Mr. Harry Styles?” he says, thrusting the clipboard toward him. “If I can get a signature, please?”

It’s obvious he’s impatient to get home. 

“I’m not expecting anything. Who sent you?”

The messenger shrugs. “Anonymous sender.”

Harry signs and waves him off, holding the small package in his hand. Back in the kitchen he considers it for a long moment, biting his index finger, before opening it. There’s a tiny ceramic figurine of a weasel. The silence feels like pressure building up in Harry’s ears. The figurine is a perfect match for his mother’s collection.

After a moment he takes it upstairs, stuffing it in his suitcase. 

Louis blinks at him sleepily. “Everything all right?”

Harry rises from his crouch, walks over to the bed and leans down to kiss him. “Yeah. I’ll have your pancakes done in five minutes.”

He grabs his phone on the way out of the bedroom. 

“You’re lucky I’m a morning person. What the hell do you want? You’re on holiday.” Nick answers on the second ring tone. 

“You _sound_ like a morning person,” Harry snipes. “And I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course you do. What is it?”

 

Nick doesn’t get back to him until the next afternoon.

Louis doesn’t wake up from his nap when Harry lifts his feet off his lap so he can get off the couch and hide out in the kitchen to talk to Nick. 

“You’re lucky Malik doesn’t celebrate Christmas or I’d owe him one.”

“Did you get anything?”

All he’d managed was to trace the source of the package to a post office in West Virginia. “I’ll make inquiries, but—”

“It’s a dead end,” Harry finishes for him with a sigh. “Thanks, Nick.”

“We’ll figure it out, yeah? At least it’s not inherently hostile. Just... stalkerish.”

“For now.”

“That’s the spirit,” Nick replies, making Harry’s lips twitch. 

He’s still restless, though. And he starts pulling out measuring cups and bowls, rifling in the cupboard for the flour and sugar. 

“Hey, sweetheart. You missed the end of the movie.” Harry’s mum walks in after a cursory knock on the door. 

Harry shrugs. “The puppies found their way back home, right?”

Anne chuckles. “They did.” She takes the butter and eggs out of the fridge for him. “Is everything OK?” she asks carefully as she sets them down on the countertop.

“Just some stuff from work. It’s nothing.”

Anne takes down a checkered apron from a peg and hands it to Harry. “I remember when you wanted to be a baker.”

“I still bake,” Harry protests. 

“You stress bake now,” Anne says, shaking her head.

“It’s Christmas. I’m making cookies.” Harry starts measuring out flour. “And I’ve been stress baking for ages. Remember that bake sale when I was waiting for the results of my bar exam?”

Anne laughs, handing him the oven paper. “Financed the school’s prom all by yourself.” Then she puts her palm to his cheek, her smile wistful. “But you used to talk to me then, about what had you stressed. Now who do you talk to?”

Harry takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. “ _Mom._ ”

She shakes her head again. “Louis is a dear, but I can tell you want to protect him. You don’t want to upset him, so you’re not going to tell him what has you upset.”

Harry’s eyebrows dip. “I do. Sometimes. But he’s—”

“I understand, honey. But you’re _my_ baby, and I worry. I need to know there’s someone you can talk to. It’s not healthy keeping things inside.”

Harry shrugs, uncomfortable. “We have mandatory therapy.”

Anne rolls her eyes. “Like you don’t know how to get around that,” she scoffs.

“I talk to Nick,” he says truthfully. “When there’s something wrong I talk to him.” He smacks a kiss to the back of her hand before turning to back to his baking. “But there’s nothing to worry about. Promise.”

*

Harry manages to put the mysterious delivery out of his mind for the rest of his vacation. And he almost forgets about it once he's back at work and they have their first case.

Then he comes back from a consultation in New York to find an unmarked, large brown envelope on his desk, from which he shakes out a series of surveillance photos of his sister getting out of her car in the driveway of her house. 

He stomps over to Nick’s office and throws the photographs onto his desk, pacing while Nick looks them over. “My mom. Now my sister.”

Nick drums his fingers on the table, glancing up at Harry. “Someone’s trying to make you nervous.”

“Well it’s working,” Harry bites out.

“We’ll get them protection. Police car parked in front of their house 'round the clock.”

Harry gives a tight nod, although he doesn’t fancy having to explain it to either of them. “What the _fuck_ is going on?”

Nick throws a thumb to point at the cabinet behind his desk. “Want a drink?”

“Please.”

*

He receives nothing for another week. 

On Saturday he goes into the office late in the morning for a team meeting and to finish up on some paperwork. He doesn’t like to take home work. He takes longer than he’d hoped for and ends up leaving almost at dinner time.

When he gets to the car he finds a leaflet pinned to the windshield under the wiper, flapping in the cold wind. He’s about to crumple it up to throw out when he recognizes it as one from Corden’s music shop. When he flips through it he finds it has some annotations inside, a few guitars circled and some prices and delayed payment possibilities written down— in Louis’ handwriting. 

Harry marches right back into the BAU headquarters, almost crashes into Nick who was leaving his office. 

“Talk to your damn boyfriend,” Nick insists, leaning back against the front of his desk. “Maybe he remembers someone suspicious.”

Harry shakes his head. 

“You _have_ to tell him if we’re going to put him under protection anyway. The last thing you want to do is have him thinking someone’s following him, or that he’s imagining things.”

Harry frowns at that. “Louis doesn’t have paranoid schizophrenia, you know.”

Nick winces. “I know. I’m sorry—”

“And I trust our people would be discrete enough that he wouldn’t notice.”

“OK. Probably. But you should still tell him.”

Harry runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to worry him.”

Nick clucks his tongue. “Maybe he _should_ be worried? At least on alert?”

“He has enough going on. Those three weeks with Reese were tough for him.”

Nick tilts his head, bewildered. “That was months ago.”

“He still has nightmares. _Actual_ nightmares, about it.”

Nick rubs a hand over his lower face. “Honestly, I’m not surprised,” he says with surprising gentleness. “One of the ugliest cases I’ve ever worked on. And the press, calling him ‘The Sculptor’ like he was some kind of artist.” He shakes his head, eyes wide. “And we just got to see the end result. If Tomlinson was living through the whole... process...”

Harry nods his head slowly. “Yeah. The nightmares just cropped up again a couple of weeks ago. All of a sudden. He’s been good this week, but the last thing I want to do is risk setting it off again. So I’m not telling him about this unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

There’s a rap of knuckles on the door before it swings open and Cara sticks her head inside. “Oh. You’re both still here?”

“Yeah. What is it?” Harry snaps, not welcoming the interruption.

Cara raises her eyebrows. “We might have a case. Azoff just told me.”

“Might?” Nick drawls. “We always 'might' have a case. How is this news?”

“Just wanted to give you a head’s up, but fuck you both,” Cara says, throwing her hands up.

“Sorry!” Harry says quickly. “Some personal stuff... Family troubles.”

Nick puts on his best martyred expression. “His grumpiness is contagious. You know that, dearest.”

Cara rolls her eyes. “I’m used to your temper tantrums, baby boy. Don’t sweat it. And you, Nick, can suck my—” she points two fingers at her crotch, making Nick burst out laughing.  
  


Harry takes a bit of a detour to get home to clear his mind. He doesn’t want to bring anything negative with him and upset Louis. He’s surprised to smell food when he steps through the door.

“Of course you’d show up just in time for dinner,” Louis greets him, slipping his arms around Harry’s waist before he can even put down his briefcase.

“You cooked?”

“It’s not the first time!” Louis replies, indignant, beginning to pull back from the hug.

Harry hugs him tighter, even though he’s hot in his coat and he’s still holding his briefcase. “You’re right. Maybe the third or fourth time?” he teases.

He lets Louis push him off, laughing harder when Louis flips him off in an overly dramatic gesture.   
  


Harry puts his worries aside for dinner. They’re snuggled up on the couch watching a movie when his phone rings. Azoff himself calling to tell him they have a case in Arizona and they’re leaving first thing in the morning. No details.

Louis mutes the movie, leaning back against the armrest. “Where?” He knows what a late night call means.

“Arizona.”

“Well. At least you’ll get out of this cold.” 

“I like the cold,” Harry says, just to be contrary.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Good for you.” Then he slips his cold toes under Harry’s jumper, poking at his sides, making him squirm. “Got your bag ready?”

Harry nods. He always has a bag packed with the essentials in case they have to leave on short notice. “Just missing one thing, but I’m not sure it’ll fit.”

“What?”

Harry can’t contain his grin. “You.”

Louis groans and throws himself at Harry to pinch his sides and tickle him until Harry’s stomach hurts from laughing.

He has to get up at five in the morning, so he drags himself to bed before it’s even eleven. Kisses Louis good night and leaves him on the couch to finish watching his program. Three minutes after he’s turned off the light, he has Louis sliding under the covers and pulling him into a long kiss.

“ _That’s_ a proper good night’s kiss,” Louis whispers. 

Harry feels under his palms Louis’ face shift as he smiles, and he thumbs at his bottom lip with a grin of his own. 

“Come to tuck me in, too?” He traps one of Louis’ legs to pull him closer so that they slot together.

“No. You’re being very naughty.” Louis nips at his neck playfully. “You need to get your sleep.”

“I will,” Harry assures him. “After.”

 

He doesn’t get to sleep until half past, but he slips into sleep much better after a great orgasm, with Louis at his side, warm, and soft, and boneless with his own release.  
  


He’s jarred awake by a shriek and a sudden change in temperature as the bed covers are pushed down when Louis backs up against the headboard, heels slipping on the sheets, hyperventilating. 

Harry squints at the clock on the bedside: 4:13 AM. It’s not the first time this happens, but it doesn’t get any easier. 

“Louis.” Harry sits up, keeping his hands to himself. He’s learned to wait to touch, but talking helps, sometimes, to bring Louis back and calm him down quicker. His voice is rough with sleep as he murmurs a litany of ‘Lou. You’re at home. You’re safe’.

Louis drags his hands down from his shoulders to his hands, inspecting each of his fingers, his chest, his legs, toes. “It’s him. It’s him again. It’s him.”

Harry places a hand on his arm, making Louis flinch. “It’s another nightmare, baby. Just a nightmare. It’s not real.”

Louis shakes his head hard. “It _is_ real. I can tell the difference, Harry!” His voice is shrill. 

Harry can tell by the tension in his jaw and the hitches in his breath that Louis is about to start crying. 

He does, making a keening sound in his throat as he collapses against Harry’s chest, his whole body shaking. 

Harry strokes his back, trying to soothe the tremors running down his spine. “I’ve got you. You’re OK, Lou. It’s going to be all right. I love you.”

Louis grips the front of Harry’s tee shirt so hard the collar digs into the back of Harry’s neck. “It’s the same. But it’s real. But it can’t be real. You got him. You got him. But it’s the same. I don’t—” He keeps sobbing, muscles so rigid he’s twitching. 

When after twenty minutes he still hasn’t calmed down and his breathing is starting to get wheezy, Harry takes a deep breath and carefully maneuvers them so he can reach into the bedside table drawer. He shakes out two Xanax pills and coaxes Louis into taking them. “You’ll feel better in a bit,” he says, helping him hold up the glass of water.

Fresh tears spill from Louis’ eyes after he swallows the pills. 

“It’s just for today. It’s all right, baby,” Harry assures him, knowing Louis is more ashamed about the anxiety medication than about the sleeping pills. “You’ll feel better in a moment.”

He folds Louis into a hug, holding him while the medication take effect. In less than fifteen minutes he’s limp in Harry’s arms. 

4: 46 AM and it’s almost time for Harry to go. He bites his lip hard, blinking back his own tears, and holds Louis for ten more minutes. Then he gets up. He tucks Louis in, strokes his hair out of his face and wipes the tears from his cheeks, tasting the residual saltiness on his skin when he kisses his cheek softly, before forcing himself to step away. 

*

Harry wasn’t sure if the heaviness in his chest at the state in which he had had to leave Louis would let him sleep on the plane, but Azoff asks them to gather around before he can even try to get some sleep.

They all wait for Azoff to speak, but he sits in silence, wiping his glasses clean with slow, deliberate movements. 

“Well? What is it?” Cara asks finally. 

Cara can hold out for hours during an interrogation, but the rest of the time she has no patience at all.

“I received a personal call about this particular case,” Azoff begins, putting on his glasses and peering at them each in turn. “The detective who called was upset. And confused.”

“That’s why they call us, generally speaking, isn’t it?” Nick interjects with a bit of a smirk.

Azoff ignores him. “He was confused because he received a note, claiming that a certain dead man was at work again.”

“Reese,” Harry breathes without thinking.

Azoff’s eyes snap to him. “Julian Reese,” he confirms.

Cara’s nose wrinkles. “But he’s dead. Shot him myself. Got the autopsy report and all. Remains destroyed. Etcetera. Why are we even taking this seriously?”

Azoff opens the folder he had on the tabletop. “It wasn’t just a note. It was a package.”

Harry examines the pictures of the box and its content of human body parts. Fresh. 

“It's confirmed this is... real? Awfully good Halloween props these days,” Nick says.

“DNA matches one Fred Walters. Reported missing on the 19th this month. Still haven’t found the body, but...” Azoff shrugs. “It’s a matter of time.”

Nick waves one of the pictures around. “What kind if killer sends a heads up like this?”

“One who wants to get caught,” Cara answers with a curl of her lips.

Harry shakes his head, raising a hand to pull at his bottom lip. “One who's making a statement.”

Azoff nods. “Now we just have to figure out what he’s trying to say.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Louis doesn’t wake up till 1:22 PM. Xanax knocks him out, especially since he doesn’t take it frequently, and the full-blown panic attack had exhausted him. His legs feel weak as he trudges to the bathroom, although the dizziness clears in a few minutes. The mortification, however, has his stomach in knots as he picks up his phone and finds four texts from Harry waiting for him. 

**6:17 AM About to take off.**

**6:18 AM I’m so sorry I had to leave you like that. I love you.**

**10:32 AM Just arrived.** *sun emoji* **Not too warm not too hot.** *bowl of soup emoji and bear emoji*

**10:34 AM Call me later let me know how you’re doing please. Love you, Lou.**

Louis puts down the phone, worrying his bottom lip. He hates it when he disturbs Harry’s sleep. And he hates it when Harry sees him like that. But he _knows_ it wasn’t a nightmare. He reaches for his current journal and flips through the pages, back to August. The entries are all vague; more impressions of terrible pain than anything. Staring eyes over a surgical mask. The snap of latex gloves. The glint of a blade. 

After a deep breath he puts pen to paper, his hand shaking. 

**January 21st**

_I’m lying down. Strapped down. To a workbench? It’s hard and cold._

_“What the hell, man?” I croak, in a deep, rough voice._

_“Don’t want to make a mess.” A man answers. “It’s all rather... messy, this.” He’s a dark shadow with the light behind him. He stuffs a gag in my mouth._

_“Not that anybody can hear you,” the man mutters. “But I don’t want to hear you.” He looks down at something, surgical blade in his hand. Then he starts._

_“This is going to hurt,” he says._

_It does._

Once his stomach has settled a bit, Louis has a late lunch. Sesame noodles with vegetables, because Harry’s made him branch out into different types of frozen food when he’s traveling and he knows Louis is not likely to cook. 

When he’s done, Louis throws the fork and plate in the sink, then changes his mind and washes them. He’s responsible and he can take care of himself and the house. With a groan, he slips into a worn pair of shoes and pulls on his coat to throw out the trash. 

It’s cold outside, standing under the ledge at the entrance to their apartment complex, and it takes a few tries before he can light up the cigarette he had in his coat pocket. It tastes a little stale, but it’ll do. He watches the curl of smoke against the clear sky, shivering. 

 

The sharp pain in his foot when he stomps out the stub makes him cry out. Then, like a wave, he becomes aware of the pain in his other foot. And in his calves. And thighs, and hips, and back. He’s not in front of the apartment building anymore, although the area looks familiar. It’s getting dark and he doesn’t even have his phone with him. 

Louis swears through chattering teeth and starts walking again. He’s in a residential area, and he heads toward a security cabin at the end of the street. When he asks to use the phone, the security guard gives him an odd look, but he lets him inside and hands him the phone. 

“Hello?” Harry’s voice sounds tense and wary. Of course he doesn’t recognize the number.

“Harry. It’s me. Louis.” Louis gives the security guard a thumbs-up when he asks him if he’d like a cup of hot coffee.

“What number is this? Where are you? Are you all right?” 

“I think I’m... near Nick’s place? I’m not sure. It looks familiar. I left my phone at home—it wasn’t exactly a planned walk...” he says wryly.

There’s a beat of silence at the other end of the phone, and Louis cradles the plastic cup the security guard offers him in both hands, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder. 

“You _walked_ there? From home?” Harry asks, aghast.

Louis almost drops the phone when he nods. “The pain in my feet says yes.”

“Shit, Lou. That’s like... ten miles?”

“Mhm.” Louis takes a sip of the coffee. It’s too bitter.

“Louis?” Harry sounds like he’s said his name more than once.

“I’m here,” Louis says wearily. God, he’s tired.

“You need to call a cab and get home.”

“Yeah.”

“ _Now_ , Louis.”

Louis hums absently in agreement. “You deserved that commendation, you know? I’m proud of you.” He doesn’t know where that’s coming from, but it seems important to let Harry know. 

Harry makes a small noise in his throat, and Louis can pictures the line between his eyebrows. “Thanks, baby. I’m going to hang up now so you can call a cab, OK?”

“OK.”

“Call me the minute you get home.”

 

His almost four hour walk translates into a thirty minute drive back to the apartment. It’s 7:10 PM when he gets home. He’s so tired he feels like his legs might fall off. 

He calls Harry while he waits for the water in the shower to get warm. 

“I’m home.”

Harry lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank fuck.”

A lump rises to Louis’ throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s not your fault. You don’t have to apologize, Lou. What happened?”

Louis shrugs, rubbing his ankles. “I went to take out the trash and took a detour back inside, apparently.”

“You said you were close to Nick’s?” Harry asks, sounding bewildered. 

“Mhm. A different gated community, though. Dogwood Park, or something like that.”

Harry hums thoughtfully. “Well. Take a warm shower and get to bed, you must be exhausted,” he says gently. “But have something to eat before you go to sleep. At least some warm milk. You had lunch, right?”

“Noodles.”

“Yummy.”

“What did _you_ eat?” Louis asks. The water’s already hot, but he’s quite comfortable sitting on the closed toilet, talking to Harry.

“Veggie burrito at this place Cara recommended. She’s been here before. She’s traveled all over the place, and not just for the job.”

Louis can’t help the stab of jealousy and fear. It would be so easy for Harry to find someone interesting and uncomplicated. Someone he wouldn’t have to take care of. “That’s nice,” he says. Thankfully his voice sounds normal. “Is it warm over there, then?”

“Warmer than home for sure. But we spent most of the day inside reviewing evidence, so...”

Louis really doesn't want to get up. “Lots of cacti?”

Harry lets out a cackle. “I’ve seen a few.”

Louis smiles a little. “So you’re OK?” he asks, voice soft.

“I’m OK. Don’t worry about me,” Harry says firmly. “I’ve got to go now, baby.”

Louis presses the heel of a palm to one eye, the other squeezed shut against the sudden stinging. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Try to get some rest.”

***

Harry sighs as he gets off the phone with Louis.

Louis hadn’t had one of his episodes since the Christmas party, and this had to be the longest one since Harry had known him. The thought of missing hours of his life like that makes Harry’s skin crawl. He hates he can’t be there with Louis now, when he obviously needs him. And he has no idea what it could mean, either: the whole area where Nick lives is a common place of residence for FBI agents.

“Ready to head to the hotel?” Nick asks, poking his head into the empty office Harry had snuck into to talk to Louis.

They’re gathering their stuff, almost to the door of the police station, when they get the call. They’ve found Fred Walters’ body. Outside the city, in a stretch of desert in the middle of nowhere.

It’s dark by the time they arrive, the crime scene lit up by high power flashlights. Despite the difference in location—Julian 'The Sculptor' Reese had operated in New York and left the bodies in park fountains—Harry is overtaken by a sense of déjà vu. 

“Reese is dead,” Harry reminds himself—and Nick—standing in front of the mutilated body. “It’s a copycat.”

Nick crouches to inspect the body. “These carved signs... We never made that public. That there were designs carved in the flesh, yes. But no pictures were released, no hint of what type of symbols.”

Harry can’t take his eyes off the corpse. “Louis dreamt about this,” he says in a low voice. There are people around them. 

“Yeah?” Nick stands up with a groan, hands on his knees.

“Last night. Before I left.”

“So they weren’t just nightmares,” Nick says.

Harry tugs at his hair. “No, they _were_. He said this one was different.”

Nick snaps off the latex gloves. “Can we get a scan of his journal, d’you think? Might be something useful.”

Harry shrugs. “I guess.”

“He’s going to have to go to HQ though. Can’t be sending that kind of thing except through a secure platform.”

Harry grimaces: Louis isn’t going to be happy.

***

Louis spends his time at work on Monday dreading the afternoon. He’s never been to the BAU headquarters when Harry wasn’t there. Even though it’s 5:24 PM when he gets there, there are still people working. He put on his nicest jeans and jumper, but he still stands out among all the people in suits. 

In the elevator he hits the button and backs into a corner, fidgeting with the bottom hem of his jumper and avoiding eye contact with everyone else on the crowded elevator. Everyone exits on the third floor, except for him and another woman. 

He expects her to get out when the elevator stops on the fifth floor, but she doesn’t. The doors are starting to close when she stops them. 

“Isn’t this you?” she asks, not unkindly. 

Louis looks up at her. “No. I’m going up to the seventh.”

She lets the doors close, brow creased. “Sorry, then. I thought I saw you hit the button when you got in,” she says.

Louis makes a small sound of acknowledgment, wondering if he should apologize because he probably did even if he can’t remember it. But she’s out of the elevator with a curt ‘good afternoon’ and half way down the hall before he can gather his courage or find the words. 

He follows the instructions Harry had given through the phone to find Zayn Malik, the tech-analyst working with their team. 

Zayn opens the door with narrowed eyes at the third knock. Louis is surprised to see he’s more underdressed than Louis, in a superhero tee-shirt and jeans. 

“Hi. Um, I’m—”

“Louis,” Zayn interrupts, staring at him with undisguised curiosity.

Louis nods. “Yeah. Harry said you’d—”

“I was expecting you. Come inside.”

To Louis’ horror, Zayn grabs his wrist and tugs him inside, closing the door behind them. _Zayn’s sister spent a lot of time in hospital when Zayn was a child and Zayn filled her room with colorful drawings until the nurses had to take them down._

Zayn’s work space is cramped, the walls full of family pictures. Louis’ eyes fall on one of a Zayn that couldn’t be more than eight with his arm around an older girl, pale and thin, with a striking family resemblance. 

“Sit down, if you want,” Zayn says, pointing at the only chair. 

“Thanks.” Louis perches on the edge and reaches for the journal inside his bag. 

Zayn stares at Louis while he scans the pages, his eyes looking huge behind his glasses.

“Can you stop staring, mate? It’s rude,” Louis finally snaps.

Zayn doesn’t drop his eyes. “Sorry. It’s just—You’re like... real life X-Men or something, you know?”

It surprises a small, bewildered laugh out of Louis. “Not really.”

Zayn’s finished scanning, but he doesn’t move, still staring at Louis. “Maybe more like Wolverine,” he concedes. “But you could _join_ the X-Men. There’s a whole division in the bureau for paranormal phenomena. People like you.”

Louis shakes his head. “I’m not a superhero.”

Zayn shrugs. “You could be.”

“What are you, Professor X? Trying to recruit me?”

Zayn grins. “Nah. Just fascinated by the stuff.” He hits a few buttons on the scanner and steps closer to Louis. “Computers... they’re easy. They make sense. But the mind... It’s so interesting, you know? Like, how all your sense are present when you dream except smell? What’s up with that?” 

His voice is quick, animated, rambling on about brain waves and data routers. Louis has no idea what he’s talking about. 

“The kind of things you can do. It’s cool,” Zayn concludes. 

Louis winces and snatches the journal from him. “It’s really not. Thanks for this.”

“No problem.”

He hurries down the hall, feeling Zayn staring at his back until he rounds the corner.  
  


“You got it?” Louis calls Harry in the car as he drives home.

“Yeah,” Harry replies. “Thanks, baby. How are you holding on? Did you like Zayn?”

“No,” Louis answers automatically. 

Harry chuckles. “I don’t like him much, either. But he’s good at what he does.”

“‘An invaluable asset’ and ‘valued member of the team’ and all that?” Louis quips.

Louis is delighted when he hears Harry bray with laughter.

“That’s it,” Harry says, giggling.

They talk for a few more minutes before saying goodbye. Louis is about to hang up when he remembers.

“What’s on the fifth floor at HQ?” 

“Uh. Records management. It’s mostly paperwork. It’s a bit of a joke that that’s where you end up if you get demoted or can’t find a place anywhere else. It’s not even BAU proper,” Harry explains.

Louis isn’t sure what he expected, but he’s left as in the dark as he was before. “Oh.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Just wondering.”

***

Harry gets a pang when he sees how shaky Louis’ handwriting was when he wrote the entry. But he smothers  his concern and concentrates on the content and what they can get from it. They’d been to the morgue that morning to talk over the results with the medical examiner. The same instruments and he same modus operandi as with Reese. Except— 

“It doesn’t make sense.” Harry puts the tablet down. “Reese would want to hear them scream.”

“Maybe he had a headache?” Nick jokes, mouth full of lettuce. 

“It just seems like a lot of work for something you don’t even enjoy.” Harry takes a large bite out of his burger. 

It’s past 8 PM and the coffee bar is mostly empty. They’d stopped for dinner after leaving the police station instead of getting room service at the hotel because Nick claimed the food was terrible and that he needed a change of scenery to get his ‘brain juices’ flowing.

 

Harry’s getting ready for bed back at the hotel when there’s a knock on his door. 

“This arrived for you today, sir?” 

Harry takes the envelope. His fingers feel numb and he struggles to get it open. There’s a picture of a screenshot of a video of Harry talking at a press conference after Reese had been apprehended. His name is on a title bar underneath him and has a red line struck through it. A blank piece of paper with newspaper cuttings spelling out a message: _are you proud of yourself?_ makes laughter bubble up for an instant in his throat at the theatricality and the cliche. Then he gets to the last thing inside the envelope: a picture of a long, off-white building. It’s grainy, like it was taken from a low-quality image from the Internet. He squints at the sign up front where he can just make out the words ‘Southwood Psychiatric Hospital’. That's in Pennsylvania. It's also where Louis was interned as a teenager.

Harry bites the inside of his cheek so hard he draws blood and lunges for his phone, heart pounding in his chest as it rings. 

“Harry?”

“Louis, where are you?” Harry gasps.

“At home. It’s eleven at night, Harry.”

Harry’s grip on the phone loosens a little. 

“Harry? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Harry?”

He can hear the growing trepidation replacing the soft sleepiness in Louis’ voice and he hates it. 

“I’m fine, Lou. Nothing’s wrong. I just... wanted to hear your voice. I miss you.” It’s not a lie.

“Miss you, too,” Louis says. “Terry does as well. He keeps nipping at my fingers when I feed him.”

That brings a smile to Harry’s face. “He’s just saying hello.”

“He’s a maniac, that turtle,” Louis grumbles jokingly.

Harry hums, knuckles pressed to his forehead. 

“You can always talk to me. You know that, right?” Louis says after a moment in a small voice.

Harry wants to cry. “Thank you. I love you.” 

Louis sighs. “I love you, too.”

“Go to sleep. I don’t want to keep you up.”

“It’s not that late. You want to talk some more?”

Harry hesitates. “Maybe... maybe just tell me about what you did today? How was work?”

Louis’ voice is comforting, and after a while Harry feels like he can breathe again. 

*

The next morning, Harry shoves the envelope at Nick’s chest the moment he opens the door of his hotel room. Nick opens it without a word, eyebrows rising and falling as he pulls out the contents. 

“We have to tell Azoff. Maybe even notify Director Singh. This has gone too far, Harry.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t know... It’s not, like, a case. This is against me.”

“You idiot. That’s precisely the problem!” Nick throws the pictures down on the bed. “This is clearly a targeted attack. You could be in danger.”

Harry grips the back of his neck with  both hands. “I don’t know. Let’s— _Fuck_. Let’s get this case solved and then we’ll figure this out.”

“Harry—” Nick’s phone starts ringing. He huffs and fishes his phone from his pocket, pointing a finger at Harry even as he picks up. “This isn’t over.”

 

A police patrol found the body in a dumpster downtown earlier that morning. CSI is still finishing up when they arrive.

Cara’s the first one to speak. “He must’ve picked this one up while he was still thinking about where to dump the first one.”

“Have we got an ID?” Harry asks. 

“Not yet.”

Harry feels sick. Which is unusual. He never had much a problem with gore, and he’s developed an iron stomach in his years working at the FBI. It’s a gruesome scene, though. And he keeps thinking about the veiled threats he’s been receiving and how they target the people he loves more than they do him. 

“I need some air.” He hurries to put distance between him and the corpse, careful to walk upwind, after bumming a cigarette from a police officer. 

The thing that’s nagging at him is the awful feeling that it has to be someone he knows. Or at least someone who has access to him and to information that’s not public knowledge. He doesn’t tell strangers about his mum’s collection of ceramic figurines—let alone discusses Louis’ past—and whoever was behind this knew about it. 

His phone rings while he’s watching Cara talking to one of the forensic examiners, waiting for the nicotine to take effect.

“Nick. What is it?”

“You still at the crime scene? I’m sending you some pictures so you can check something.”

Harry stomps out the cigarette. “Pictures of what?”

“Reese’s artwork.” Harry can hear the inverted commas. “The carvings on Walters match Randolph Everett’s exactly.”

“Reese’s first victim.”

“Yes. _Exactly_.”

Harry dashes back to the body, swiping through the pictures, eyes darting between the body and the screen of his tablet. “Fucking hell.”

“What’s up?” Cara asks, coming up behind him.

Harry hands her the tablet. He can tell the moment she realizes what she’s looking at. John Doe’s carvings match those of Reese’s second victim exactly. 

“Looks like our copycat’s done his homework.”  
  


Julian ‘The Sculptor’ Reese had called himself an artist. He’d taken his time selecting his victims and setting them up, thinking up new designs.

“Reese left at least two weeks between kills until he freaked out because we were onto him. Now we’ve got two murders in less than a week—counting since Walters was abducted—and he’s recycling designs.” Nick keeps tilting his chair back and letting it fall forward. 

“This isn’t something just anyone could know,” Cara spits out. “There isn’t a booklet out there with stencils for this.”

“It’s someone with inside information,” Azoff agrees. 

Nick shoots Harry a meaningful look.  

Harry sighs, but clears his throat to get the team’s attention. “I’ve been getting threats.”

Azoff turns to him, face impassive. “Explain,” he says simply.

Harry tells them everything and shows them the last pictures he received—except for the one of the mental hospital. It’s Louis’ private life and he doesn’t think it’s relevant. Nick doesn’t say anything, but Harry can feel his eyes on him.

Azoff is hard to read, his face expressionless at the best of times. “You should have spoken up sooner.”

“Little Harry doesn’t trust us,” Cara jeers with a tight grin.

Harry glares at her. “You’re two years older than me.”

The grin drops from Cara’s face. “That’s what you’re choosing to focus on out of that sentence, is it?” She doesn’t sound like she’s joking anymore. 

“I was handling it,” Harry tells Azoff, ignoring Cara. 

“Really? Have you got any leads?” she demands. 

“No.” Harry’s jaw clenches. 

Cara sneers.  “Great job.”

He knows she’s just being defensive because they’re a team and they’re supposed to trust each other, but he’s getting angry. “Fuck off, Cara! It was none of your business.”

Azoff raises a hand, palm up. “Shut up. Both of you. We have a potential breach in the bureau’s security and a killer on the loose. One of our team with a target on his back and his family in danger. This isn’t the time for petty squabbles.” He turns to address Harry again. “Have you taken any precautions at all?

“His childhood home and sister are being monitored by the police,” Nick says, speaking finally.

“Oh, so you trusted _him_ , of course,” Cara mutters under her breath.

Azoff nods. “What about your partner?” 

Harry shakes his head. “I didn’t want to worry him.” 

Azoff hums. “I think... the best thing we can do is solve this case.”

“Seriously?” Nick gapes.

“Yes, Nick. This is personal. But it’s also clearly related to _this_ case. And to Reese’s case in August. ‘Are you proud of yourself?’ For whatever reason, Harry’s involvement angered them and they’re acting out now.” Azoff taps the tips of his fingers together. “If we catch whoever is behind these new murders, we’ll have the person behind the threats.”

Nick opens his mouth to argue, but Azoff cuts him off. “We have very little to go on, otherwise. Someone with access, illicit or legal, to evidence material, and with some kind of grudge.” He shakes his head with a slight curl of his lips. “The FBI isn’t free from hierarchical drama. It’s a big pool to fish out one person with no other information.”

“Statistically white male. I’d say forties, at least: the cut outs are old school. I mean, it could be for effect, but...” Cara adds with a shrug.

Azoff nods in agreement. “But that’s not very helpful.” 

Nick frowns. “But Harry’s in danger. And Tomlinson too, possibly.”

Azoff blinks at him, unimpressed. “Harry’s here. With us. Working a case. He’s in as much danger as he ever is. As for Tomlinson, I agree, he needs security assigned. So get to it.” 

And that’s that. 

Harry feels marginally better now that he’s got a clear path of action, even if in truth nothing has changed in his circumstances. With the exception that he does what he should have done since the beginning and gets Louis assigned protection. The people at HQ reassure him they’ll be careful not to alert Louis to their presence.

The rest of the day is one of waiting. For ID on the victim. For the autopsy report. CSI finds tire tracks impressions, so they wait on a possible match for car model. 

They’ve been in Arizona three days and Harry is already aching to get back. This case, it’s personal connection to him, is driving him crazy. 

“I still think we’re going about this all wrong,” Nick complains, later that evening while he’s driving them to the hotel. “Reese was operating for months before we were even called in, and even after we were on the case it was three weeks until we got him, jumping around states after him.”

“But this isn’t him,” Harry reminds him. “And he’s just repeating Reese’s murders as some kind of message. We caught Reese then, we can catch his copycat now.”

Nick’s face shows he isn’t convinced, but he drops the subject. “Louis hasn’t... got anything about all this?” he asks after a while. “Besides Sunday’s dream, I mean. Nothing else odd happening?”

Harry starts to shake his head, but stops. “The night of the Christmas party—”

“Yeah?”

“He had... he had one of his...” Nick nods and gestures at him to go on. “He ended up on the fifth floor. And he asked me about it the other day, what was up there.”

Nick glances at him, brow furrowed in confusion. “But that’s tumbleweed land. Just paperwork. Archives.”

“Best place to get information, though. If they have access to most files and evidence boxes, and personnel info,” Harry muses.

The thought crosses his mind about how Louis had ended up near Nick’s house.

“I’ll call Azoff. At least get a list of the people working there?” Nick is saying. 

“Yeah.” It’s an idea they don’t have to justify as anything but brainwork. “Although it seems a bit of a stretch, doesn’t it? Going from archiving to serial killing? They’ve got no background for it.” 

Nick shrugs. “You don’t need to pass a course for it, as far as i know. Just have a taste for it. And even if he doesn’t like to hear them scream, he’s still a sadist who’s enjoying tormenting you.”  
  


Zayn has some numbers for them by the time they get to the hotel. 134 workers in total in the FBI's Records Management division working on the fifth floor of BAU headquarters. 89 white men. 75 over the age of forty. It’s still too much.

It’s already midnight in Virginia when Harry gets a chance to call Louis.

“How are you?” Louis asks.

“Fine,” Harry replies, trying to rub away his headache. “There was another murder.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Harry hesitates. “You didn’t... dream anything?”

He can hear Louis shifting around. “I couldn’t— I didn’t want— I took some sleeping pills last night.”

God, Harry wants to go home. “How many?” he demands. He winces at the accusatory tone in his voice; he’s anxious and it makes him irritable.

“Just three,” Louis says quickly. “Harry, you’ve... you’ve seen what he does to them.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. “I know. I know, Lou. I’m sorry. Just. Be careful. Please?” 

“I am.” 

Harry’s eyes are burning with tiredness. “I need to get some sleep, baby.” 

“When you come back... We can go down to the beach for the weekend, hm? Get some sun down in Florida. Visit your dad?” Louis says tentatively.

Harry hums, exhausted. “That sounds nice.” 

*

Wednesday and Thursday are spent talking to family and friends of the victims, Fred Walters and Victor Dawson, trying to find if there’s any pattern in victimology; tracking surgical instruments suppliers and cars. Harry’s tense and irritable, not helped by Azoff pairing him up with Cara at every opportunity, so that he has to put up with either her snide remarks or the silent treatment.

He doesn’t get any more threats, but the radio silence and the lack of any big progress has him smoking again outside the police station, longing for a drink from the minibar at the hotel.

“You’ve read about the Madison murders?” Azoff comes out after him, wiping his glasses. He looks small and old. 

Harry nods, makes as though to put out his cigarette when Azoff coughs. 

“Don’t bother. I’ve yet to meet a field agent who didn’t smoke one at least once in a while.”

“I don’t, normally.”

Azoff looks at Harry straight in the eyes. “Just don’t start drinking.”

Harry fidgets awkwardly. 

“Come on, Harry. You must’ve heard about it,” Azoff says with a shadow of a grim smile. “Not that many secrets in the FBI. Not that I made a secret of it, after rehab.”

“I heard,” Harry admits.

“I started drinking after the Madison murders. Thirty years ago.” Azoff chuckles. “You weren’t even born, then. Christ, you’re all young.” He stares out into the parking lot. “We had him. He got away. Killed my partner, Frey, while he was at it. Then he went after me. After my family.”

The cigarette, forgotten, starts burning his fingers. Harry takes a hasty drag and puts it out.

Azoff drags a hand through his thinning hair. “My wife was terrified. I nearly lost her and the kids. It was bad for a while... but we caught him in the end. It was anticlimactic, really. I was expecting a shoot out.” He turns to look at Harry, unflinching. “Then it got worse. My alcoholism, that’s what really tore my family apart. Here’s something you might not hear in the grapevine... When I got drunk, I hit her, Shelli. I’d get so angry and take it out on her. For a long time I blamed him, Madison, but it was me. I was the one terrifying her.  
This job... it can consume you. You’re so focused on trying to keep people safe, you forget about everything else. Start locking them out. My wife would talk about rehab, therapy—dammit, just fantasizing about retirement—and I’d shut her down. Kept pushing my family away, and then even farther when I realized what they needed to be kept safe from was me.”

Harry thinks about Louis, asking him, over and over again, every time they talk: Are you OK? How are you? You know you can talk to me, right?

“I’m thinking I might set up a bakery by the beach, right by the boardwalk, when I retire,” Harry says after a long moment.

Azoff smiles. “Where?”

“California, probably. Always sunny in California. But not as hot as Florida. Louis gets cold easy.”

“That’s good, Harry. You do that.”

***

Louis is restless. It’s the fifth day with Harry off across the country and he misses him. It’s not the longest he’s been gone—that was back in August—but Louis feels just as scared and anxious as he was then. It’s like living it all over again: alternating between nightmares and snippets of this new killer’s work. 

He’s been taking sleeping pills again, not as carefully as he should when the alternative means waking up to his body stinging like his skin’s been scrubbed raw, or exhausted because he can’t get a good night’s sleep, waking up in cold sweat from the nightmares. He hasn’t even bothered to write anything down after Sunday; it’s nothing but pain and blood, and glinting metal, and a dark, wood beam ceiling beyond the blinding light.

If that isn’t keeping him up, it’s Harry, who’s distant in their phone calls: short answers and questions, and snappish before he reins himself in—then he just sounds tired. Louis is worried they won’t even make it to their one year anniversary. He was afraid this would happen. He can’t deal with the stress Louis brings him on top of his already stressful job. Louis doesn’t blame him... but he’s hurting. And Louis can’t even lie to him about the dreams, because what if it affects the case?

Niall’s been texting and Louis has been fudging the truth a bit... because Niall is busy and Louis was doing well up until now, and he doesn’t want to bother him as well.

On Thursday James gives him a gentle pat on the back and tells him to get some rest when he begs off drinks with his coworkers. When he gets home Louis forces himself to pull some turkey out to thaw after staring at the cereal in the cupboard for five minutes. 

Niall calls him at 6:26 PM, while Louis is debating whether the wilting lettuce in the drawer is still edible for a sandwich. 

“Where are you?” Niall asks, voice loud to be heard over the pub music, which clashes horribly with the Brahms Louis has on. Louis winces and pulls the phone away from his ear.

“At home.”

“Why?” Niall half-shouts. “No use staying at home alone to be mope.”

Louis sighs, picks a few of the greener leaves and throws out the rest. “I’m just not in the mood, Niall.”

There’s a beat of pounding silence. “Want me to come over?”

“No, no!” Louis says quickly. “I’m all right, Niall. Just a bit tired. I’ve had a rough couple of days,” he admits.

“I’ll come over and cook for you on Sunday, OK?” Niall says firmly. “Get a good square meal in you before Harry comes back. He was so pissed when you dropped a stone while he was gone for that big case he had in the summer.”

Louis isn’t sure why that makes him frown. “I can take care of myself, Niall. I’m doing better.” He glares at his small, sad, turkey sandwich. 

“Well. You know I like to cook for my friends. And I know you love my meatloaf, so don’t be a dick.”

Louis breathes out a laugh, hanging his head. “You’re right. Sorry, Niall.”

He can almost see Niall waving his apology away. “It’s fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

 

Louis eats almost all of his sandwich and has a bit of orange juice. Then he sits down and plays piano, waiting for Harry’s nightly call. 

It comes a little later than usual.

“Hi, love.”

“Hey, Lou. Sorry it’s late... It’s been a long day.”

“That’s fine. How are you?” Louis asks, hoping Harry won’t say he’s fine when it’s obvious he’s not.

Harry hesitates. “Been better,” he confessed. “It’s a tough one. It’s like August all over again.”

Louis makes a small, sympathetic sound in his throat. “It feels the same,” he agrees.

“More of the same on your end?” Harry asks. 

“Mhm.”

“I’ve been thinking... I know you said it was nothing, but maybe getting more insight into the process could help. Like, if he starts out on the chest or the extremities. We know the amputations are the last bit, but—”

Louis feels his turkey sandwich rise to his throat. “Harry, please. Stop.”

He hears Harry give a sharp intake of breath. “Shit. Sorry.”

Louis swallows thickly. “I can’t—It’s... like... waves of pain. Half the time I can’t even tell what he’s doing, just that it hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats. “Don’t—Please don’t ever let me bully you into anything, OK?” He sounds oddly intense. “I could never forgive myself if I hurt you,” he whispers.

“You wouldn’t,” Louis says.

Harry makes a soft, wounded noise.

“Harry, tell me what’s wrong. Please,” Louis begs.

Harry is silent for a long moment before he speaks, his voice hoarse. “I’m... scared, Lou. I’m scared because of me people might be getting hurt.”

Louis has no idea what Harry’s talking about. “You stop people from getting hurt, Harry. That’s what you do.”

“I try. But sometimes it’s not enough. I’m too slow. Too fucking stupid—”

It breaks Louis’ heart to hear Harry doubting himself like this. “Harry, everyone makes mistakes. But you’re trying, so hard, day after day, to make the world safer, to do good. And you do good, love. You really do. You should be so proud of yourself. I’m so proud of you always.”

Harry sniffles. “Thanks, Lou,” he chokes out.

“Thank you for trusting me,” Louis whispers. 

Louis thinks Harry’s going to say else something but he doesn’t. 

“Harry?”

“Yeah. I’m... I’m here. Just. Be careful, OK? Take care of yourself.” 

“You too.”

They say goodnight after that. Louis gets into bed, decides against the pills because it’s so late and he has to work the next day, curling around Harry’s pillow instead.

*

_His body is burning: a mess of lines of fire on his skin he can’t untangle._

_A man leans in, wearing a surgical mask and cap, dressed in scrubs. “Shut up,” he snarls._

_Louis screams through the gag, throat raw, tries to fight the restraints even though it hurts._

_“Shut up!”_

_He fights harder, bucking on the metal surface on which he’s lying, feeling his muscles bulge and shake._

_There’s a blur of sudden movement in his field of vision, followed by a sharp, intense pain right under his jaw and, the next second, the warmth of blood spilling down the front of his neck. His heartbeat thunders in his head, pulses in his throat._

*

Louis’ eyes snap open, but the rest of his body feels frozen. It feels like a small eternity before he can move. He rolls off the bed and falls to the floor with a thump, barely stopping himself with his elbows instead of his face. His heart is beating so fast it feels like it might break through his chest. His head spins when he pushes himself up into a sitting position, teeth chattering. 

It’s 4:28 AM. 

He gropes for his phone, fingers fumbling, hands and feet tingling.

***

Harry’s phone wakes him up. He jerks awake, heart racing. “Styles” he rasps, not looking at the caller ID.

He thinks he makes out his name, but it takes him a moment to even recognize the voice.

“Lou? Louis?”

“‘arry. He’s dead. Stabbed me in the throat.” Louis is slurring badly, voice weak, Harry has trouble understanding him.

“Louis, baby. D’you need help? Are you still at home? Should I call an ambulance for you? Or Niall? Liam?” 

“No. I mean, yes. I’m home.” Harry hears a thump of wood and a shuddering exhalation. “I’m fine. It’s passing, now.” His voice does sound a little firmer, more articulate, the more he talks.

He relates the dream to Harry in a trembling voice. Harry’s mind is racing. He checks the clock: past two in the morning. It’s not urgent enough to wake everyone up, but it could be useful.

He hears shuffling at the other end of the line, and he recognizes the squeak of bare feet against the wooden floorboards.

“Louis. Are you on the floor, baby?”

Louis hums. “Fell out of bed.”

“Can you get up? It can’t be comfortable on the floor.”

He hears more shuffling, then the creak of the mattress, and panting. “I’m all right, Harry. Just feel... drained.”

Harry wishes he were there to make Louis some hot chocolate, tuck him in, guard the rest of his sleep. 

“I wish I was there,” he says out loud.

Louis makes a soft sound of agreement. “Soon. You’re gonna catch him. Then come home.”

“Home.” 

*

Harry wakes up before the sun has risen, eager to get started, desperate to end this. Another man is dead, and he needs to get home. 

“We’re going to find another body soon,” Harry tells Nick first thing when he greets him in the hotel lobby.

Nick squints at him. “Got anything else? I’m not psychic and I could tell you that.”

Nick can be short tempered before he’s got his coffee.

“I do, actually. But it’s hard to explain. We’ll need to... work it out between us for the others.”

Nick nods. 

They’ve done it before, with stuff they get from Louis. Harry hates to admit it, but Cara’s right in that he doesn’t entirely trust his team. At least not when it comes to Louis. Zayn only knows because he finds out about everything and he served as an intermediary between them and the FBI’s paranormal division.

Its 10 AM when they get the call. The crime scene is the same as the the others. Another isolated area and carving designs matching those of Reese’s third victim.

“He’s not getting any more original, then,” Nick mutters. 

Harry shakes his head. “He’s impersonating him but it’s not something he enjoys.”

Nick makes a face. “He’s still cutting them up alive, isn’t he?”

“He has enough forensic knowledge to know the cuts would be different if he did them postmortem.”

Nick rubs his chin. “Maybe he’s a wannabe? Frustrated rejected candidate to the BAU program? That would explain the forensic knowledge.”

“Someone who applied at the same time I did?” Harry hazards.

Nick shrugs. “Could be. It’s someone who’s envious of you; has probably been following your career. The recognition you got for your work with Reese could have been the last straw?”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck. No wonder he was rejected in that case.”

Nick laughs. “You’d be surprised. I mean, we’re all mad here. You know what they say, to catch a serial killer you’ve got to be able to think like one.”

Harry has never liked to think about it in those terms, but it’s true. “Louis says he killed him before he was done this time. The postmortem should corroborate that.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Lost his temper, apparently. He must have sedated Walters and Dawson?”

“Toxicology was clean.”

“They might have gone into shock. Point is they weren’t struggling. But our John Doe here was making noise, fighting against the restraints. The killer lashed out and stabbed him in the neck; he bled out in seconds.”

Nick crouches to check the dead man’s neck. “I can see it. He obviously tried to cover it up, but it’s noticeable.” He turns to Harry with a sharp grin. “He screwed up.”  
  


When the team get the results, Harry has to contain himself not to jump out and just say what he knows. 

“It wasn’t a mercy killing,” Cara says firmly. “It was violent. And nothing else in his MO shows any signs of remorse.” 

Harry takes that as his opening. “Something must have triggered his rage. He got impatient and he lashed out. He’s impulsive, with a low tolerance to frustration.”

“He makes mistakes when he loses his temper,” Nick adds. 

“So we’re baiting him, then?” Cara asks, matter of fact.

Azoff nods. “The main objective is to get him to stop killing, so we can’t keep playing this game of cat and mouse. He’s trying to send a message. He has something to say and this is just a necessary step for him... So let’s cut the middle man and go straight to the chase.” He leans back in his chair, hands folded on his stomach. “He takes no pleasure in this form of sadism, which means there’ll be no point in him continuing if he can’t use this to get to Harry, to shame him. If we call him out, state he’s a copycat, that we—Harry, in this case—didn’t make a mistake apprehending Reese, he’s bound to retaliate, targeting Harry directly.”

“But—” Nick swivels in his chair, sitting up straight. “But that’s—”

Azoff glances at Harry, eyebrows raised. 

It’s a risk. Of course it is. He thinks of his mum, telling him to be careful. His sister. Louis. Nick staring at him round-eyed. 

“If he hadn't killed before, he has now. He might not be a sadist of Reese’s type, but he’s got a taste for killing now. He might stop copying Reese, but he won’t just stop unless we catch him.” Even if he stops targeting him, gives up on him, Harry knows if they don’t catch him he’ll become another serial killer out in the world with thwarted revenge as his origin story. He digs his blunt fingernails into his palms. “I want to put an end to this.”

Azoff gives him an approving nod. “Let’s get to work then.” 

They’ve got planning to do.

 


	3. Chapter 3

In October Louis had cut down his hours at the music store in favor of giving piano lessons to children. He'd been unsure, at first, how to treat them. He got the feeling children could sense something was off about him: James' babies did nothing but stare at him, wide eyed and solemn, until Harry made them laugh. More than one parent had told him, teasingly, that he didn't have to be so gentle with the children. But they were delicate in his eyes; as a general rule still mostly untouched by pain and death. And if they _had_ experienced it in their short lives... all the more reason to be gentle. 

He also overheard some parents talking once with the parents of a friend of their child’s about the 'special needs' piano teacher. ‘I think he might be like autistic or something? But he's desperately good with Lily.’ 

Louis can’t help but think sometimes about Harry wanting children in the future, and how Louis can’t see himself as a parent at all. He's gotten better, but the thought of having a child in his care terrifies him. What if he had one of his episodes and left him at the park? And he shuddered at exposing that child to ridicule and abuse at having Louis, who, it seems clear to him, can’t pass for normal no matter what. It’s bad enough for Harry. He knows people wonder what Harry is doing with him. He can’t blame them; he wonders too. He tries not to dwell on it... but he wonders. 

He’s glad he doesn’t have any lessons on Friday. He’s in no fit state to be around children. He’s unable to face customers, either. High-strung and preoccupied, Louis hides out in the storage room and does inventory and instrument maintenance.

When he gets out of work, he lets Niall know he’s fine and declines an offer to go out to the pub for dinner. Louis walks home as fast as he can and locks himself inside—not that it would do anything, but he feels like he’s on the edge of a precipice and he might fall over any moment and lose himself. He doesn’t want to.  
He sits by the window with Liszt playing in the background, almost burning his knees on the heater under the window ledge while he pets Harry’s turtle, over and over, until he’s lost all feeling in the tips of his fingers and can no longer make out the texture of the shell.

Terry perks up as the night falls and starts demanding to be fed. Louis feeds it, washes his hands, and gives in to the comfort of a bowl of cereal instead of actual food, curled up on the couch while he tries to pay attention to a movie.

Harry still hasn’t called by his usual time. It’s not rare, if he’s caught on in a case. But today it makes Louis even more nervous.

At 12:35 AM Louis picks up the phone and calls him himself.

It takes three rings for Harry to pick up, and each of them feels like a stab to his chest.

“Lou. Shit. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“It’s OK. How are you?” Louis’ voice shakes.

Harry must be able to tell because his voice loses its hastiness. “I’m all right. Really. We’re finally making some progress with the case. I can’t wait to get home.”

Louis bites his lip.  “Soon?”

“Soon.”

Louis can’t think of anything to say, but he’s content just hearing Harry breathe down the line with the shuffle of papers and the murmur of voices in the background. “Are you still working?”

Harry makes a noise of assent. “We’re on a bit of a schedule. Things are time sensitive,” he explains absently.

Louis hums, his heartbeat finally slowing down after what felt like an entire day of recurring tachycardia. A few minutes go by until Harry speaks again.

“Lou, baby. I’m going to hang up, OK? I’m getting a crick in my neck from holding the phone to my ear,” he says, tone light.

Louis doesn’t quite laugh, but it makes him smile. “Does that count as a work injury?”

Harry laughs and the heaviness in Louis’ chest lifts. “It’s worth a try. Maybe I can even get medical leave,” he jokes. “I’ll add it to my impressive record of injuries: bullet graze wound in the arm, twisted ankle, neck strain.”

Louis breathes out a giggle. “Proper badass FBI agent you are.”

Harry laughs. Then Louis hear a female voice speak, he thinks it’s Cara. He can make out Harry’s name and no more, but it sounds like an admonishment.

“I gotta go,” Harry sighs. “Get some sleep, yeah?”

Louis is more reluctant than usual to say good night, but he lets Harry go quickly. Since he doesn’t have to wake up early the next day he takes a couple of sleeping pills, but he skips the Xanax he’d been planning on taken.

He doesn’t dream. 

*

The next morning, the anxiety is back, worse than before. Bad enough that Louis can’t stay home. He takes the car without any set destination after a failed attempt at breakfast. He finds himself heading to the BAU headquarters, the path familiar.

Once he’s cleared to go into the parking lot, he realizes he has no idea what he means to do here. He sits in the car on idle for a bit so that he doesn’t have to turn off the heating, not quite sure what to do, until a security guard taps on his window. 

A fierce wind, blows his hair all over the place when he gets out of the car. The building before him is not the same one Harry works at. In fact, he’s not parked in the same visitor’s area he’d used on Monday. The fleeting thought that the interior is very similar crosses his mind when he steps inside the building before a wave of disgust, almost crippling it its intensity, assaults him. 

A man, balding and dough-faced is chatting with the receptionist. “Bit of an escapade, really. A quick trip for a bit of sunshine.”

“That’s great, Mr. Collins. Have fun.”

“I will, thank you.”

Collins’ eyes meet Louis’ for an instant as he passes him to walk out. There’s a slight curl of his lips, and Louis thinks he must imagine the spark of recognition in the man’s eyes, because Louis is certain he’s never seen him before. 

As the last rumble of the wheels disappears, the revolving doors letting in a last gust of chill wind, the nausea lifts.

“Are you all right, sir?” The receptionist half raises out of her chair.

“I’m all right, thank you.” Louis approaches the desk. “I wanted to see Agent Liam Payne?” he says automatically. Oh.

The receptionist types into the computer before asking, looking at him carefully. “Who should I say is calling, please?”

“Louis Tomlinson. I’m a… friend?”

He hasn’t seen Liam that much in the last year. He’d moved to Virginia to attend the FBI Academy, diving straight into the training program, which left him very little free time. They’d got together a few Saturdays, and had a beer to celebrate his graduation in late November, but since then there had just been a couple of texts and a memorable, drunken phone call on New Year’s Eve.

“He’s on the third floor, area six,” she tells him, handing him a visitor’s card.

Louis goes through a second security check before he’s allowed to go through to the elevators, which are thankfully empty. It’s Saturday, and the place is deserted. But as a new agent on his probation period, Louis isn’t surprised to find Liam there.

Liam starts to go in for a hug, but stops himself with an embarrassed smile. “It’s really nice to see you, Louis.”

Louis braces himself and leans in for a quick hug, Liam scrambling to return it in surprise. “You too.”

“I’ve been so busy,” Liam says apologetically. “My schedule is brutal.”

“I can see that.” 

“Yeah. Well. New agent’s lot.” Liam swings his arms at his sides, waiting, expectant. 

Louis just stares at him placidly. He hasn't lost his taste for making Liam sweat a little. 

“I was just going to take a coffee-break, actually,” Liam says finally. “They have decent coffee here...” 

Liam leads him over to the break room, rambling about the quality of coffee at the actual BAU as opposed to the academy. Once they both have their coffee and are settled at his desk, he quiets down.

“How's Harry?”

Louis takes a sip. It’s not bad. “Away on a case.”

Liam gives him an assessing look. “Been away long?” 

Louis is kind of irritated by the knowing look in Liam’s eyes. He’d take offense if it weren’t because there’s some truth to his suspicions. “A week tomorrow,” he admits. 

“But you've talked to him?” 

“Last night.” 

“Mhm.” Liam checks his watch, then looks at Louis with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I can call him if you want? If you don't want to seem... needy.” 

Louis wants to accidentally knock all of Liam’s carefully organized office supplies to the floor. “I see they didn't teach you any tact at the academy.” 

Liam winces. “I'm working on it. I’m not out on the field right now. so it hasn't really come up much.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “That's not why I came anyway.”

“Right,” Liam says, clearly skeptical. “So why did you come?” 

Louis buries his nose in his cup. “I don't know.” 

Liam chuckles. “You should have made up some excuse, dude. I'm going to call him.”

Louis shakes his head frantically, but Liam’s already hit dial. He puts the call on speaker phone. 

Louis flicks a paper clamp off the desk. “You're an idiot,” he grumbles.

He expects Harry to pick up, but the phone keeps ringing until they get the message that the phone is turned off or has no service. Harry never turns off his phone. 

Liam stares at him, licks his lips nervously. “He might be going through a tunnel. We’ll try again in five minutes.” 

Louis nods, his heart racing again. 

Liam tries to start up a conversation about the weather while they wait, but Louis can’t speak. 

Harry doesn’t pick up when they try to call again.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to _me_ ,” Liam says jokingly. “You try.”

Louis calls, a lump in his throat. He gets the same message. 

“He might be busy...” 

Louis usually avoids thinking about the part of Harry’s job that involves him around guns and very dangerous people. 

“Wait!” Liam looks up from where he’d been scrolling down his contact list. “I’ve got Nick Grimshaw’s number. Let’s try him.”

Louis hadn’t even thought of calling anyone from Harry’s team, so focused on the fact that Harry wasn’t answering. He’s got his number too, but he can’t talk over the lump in his throat. He hands Liam his phone, Nick’s contact on the screen. 

Liam hits dial. 

Nick picks up at the second ring tone, and Louis isn’t sure if the flip-flop of his stomach is relief or dread.

“Grimshaw.”

“Hi. Uh, it’s Liam Payne?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Oh, yes. Puppy Payne.”

Liam flushes at the moniker he’d acquired at the academy. “Sorry, um, is Harry there with you?” he barrels on. “He’s not picking up.”

Nick clucks his tongue. “Yeah. His phone isn't working. It was my fault, I confess. Spilled my coffee all over the table and his phone was collateral damage.”

“It happens.” Liam waggles his eyebrows at Louis, a smile on his face. 

“Is this a social call?” Nick asks. “We’re rather busy. No offense.”

Liam chuckles. “None taken. It’s only we couldn’t reach Harry, and Louis was freaking—”

Louis throws his empty plastic coffee cup at Liam. 

“Ah.” Nick clears his throat. “Harold, your boy needs to talk to you.” 

Louis’ face heats up, but he leans forward when he hears Harry’s voice: “Lou? Is everything OK?” 

He has to bite his lip hard to stop the sudden, overwhelming urge to burst into tears. 

“Everything’s fine, Harry. I was teasing Louis and then we got paranoid,” Liam answers for him after a moment. 

Louis can almost hear Harry frown. “Let me talk to him.”

Liam gives Louis a questioning look. “Um...”

Louis sets his trembling jaw and holds out his hand. Liam turns off the speaker phone and makes a sign that he’s heading for the toilet to give him some privacy.

Louis gulps. “I didn’t ask Liam to call you,” he says in a rush.

“You can call me whenever, Lou.” Harry pauses. “I mean. I have to work. But... it's never been a problem, baby.” 

There’s an unspoken ‘it's a problem now’ in there, Louis is certain. _Louis_ is a problem now. Louis looks up at the ceiling to stop the tears. He’s not sure why he’s like this. Harry has a dangerous job, and he worries, of course... but like a _normal_ person. But this is different; an anxiety that’s out of proportion to the situation. He doesn’t understand it. “I’m sorry,” he whimpers. 

“Don’t be. I want to get home to you, but I need to do this first.”

Louis nods, his throat tight. 

“Lou, let me know you’re OK, please.” Harry says when the silence stretches out.

“I’m fine.” Louis clears his throat and wills his voice to sound stronger. Harry doesn’t need to be worrying about him. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to call you tonight. But we’ll talk tomorrow. Hopefully from the airfield!”

“Go catch the bad guy,” Louis replies, trying to match Harry’s cheer, but he can’t keep it up. “And be safe.” 

“I always am.” 

When Harry hangs up, Louis holds the phone to his chest and concentrates on his breathing to calm himself until Liam comes back. 

“Better?”

Louis nods. “I’m gonna head home, though.”

Liam walks with him to the elevator. “I’d offer to drive back with you, but Nick told me you’ve got a security detail—”

“What?” Louis stops in his tracks.

Liam’s eyes open comically wide. “You didn’t know...”

Louis’ heartbeat speeds up again. “Why? What’s going on?”

Liam holds the elevator doors so they won’t close. “It’s just a cautionary measure. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”  
  


He doesn’t get any more from Liam—they might not have taught him tact at the academy, but he seems to have no problem avoiding answering questions. He can’t call Harry again, either, so he’s stuck looking behind his back as he drives back to the apartment, wondering which of the cars around him is tailing him. And, most importantly, he’s left wondering, why.

It’s 1: 11 PM when he gets home, but he goes straight to the bathroom for a long, warm shower with Debussy playing over the rush of the water. He’s lightheaded and oversensitized when he gets out of the shower to change into his softest pair of sweatpants and one of Harry’s old hoodies. 2:04 PM seems late for lunch, but the number on the scale when he steps onto it for a moment makes him bite his lip and head to the kitchen. He heats up a microwaveable veggie lasagna, and sets it down on the kitchen table on a plate, so that it won’t stain the surface, along with a cup of milk, and a napkin—just like Harry would. 

Then he sits and pokes his fork at the lasagna for ten minutes. 

The phone rings just as he’s willed himself to take the first bite.

“Hey, Fiz.”

“I got the internship!” Fizzy blurts out immediately, her voice full of contained excitement.

A smile spreads across Louis’ face. “At Big Foot, Ice cream Cone, and Steel Welding?” he asks through a mouthful of lukewarm lasagna.

Fizzy snorts. “Idiot. Yes. At Foote, Cone, and Belding. Top advertising agency in Chicago!” 

“Congratulations, sis. We’ll have to take you out to a fancy dinner to celebrate when you come visit.” He puts down the fork, the smile on his face dimming. “You’re going to be so far away, though.”

Fizzy blows a raspberry. “It’s a two hour flight, don’t be melodramatic.”

Louis huffs out a laugh. “Is that any way to talk to your older brother?”

“Yes, when he’s being all gloomy. What’s up with you? You were doing well last time we talked. I mean, you were complaining about the cold and going on about the weather in California and all that, but good..”

Louis has another forkful. “I’m fine.”

“Are you really?” she insists.

“Yes. it’s just been a bit rough these last few days,” Louis admits. 

Fizzy makes a sympathetic noise. 

“What about your ghosts? How are they taking the move?”

“Oh, you know how that is. Can’t run away from it, can we?” Despite everything her laugh is a tad bitter.

Louis sighs. “No.”  
  


He eats his way through most the lasagna talking to his sister, though his stomach feels a bit upset when he’s done. Louis is tired, physically and mentally, and his body is clamoring for a nap, but he avoids it. He attempts to do laundry; attempts to reorganize his music because Harry keeps mixing it up; attempts to clean out the cupboards in the kitchen. He’s trying to be a responsible, capable person, but he gives up and ends up leaving everything on the table, pouring himself a bowl of cereal for dinner at 6:45 PM.

He sits down on the piano for a bit, but he ends up going to bed, where it still smells like Harry. He lies on his back with his phone on his chest, in case Harry calls, a gentle Mendelssohn in his ears, eyes prickling as he stares at the dark ceiling. After the sixth time checking his phone it’s 7:48 AM. 

Harry had said there was a chance he might be returning the next day and Louis is too worked up to do anything but fret as the clock ticks, so he fishes for the sleeping pills, hands shaking. Takes just two, with water.  
  
The vibration of the phone against his stomach wakes him up, although he feels like he hasn’t been asleep for more than five minutes. A glance at the clock tells him he’s right: it’s 8:07 PM. 

“Yes?” The caller ID shows an unknown number. 

“Louis. It’s Nick.”

Louis sits up, yanking the iPod cable, but the earbuds had fallen out of his ears. The ringing is in his head.

“It’s Harry. We don’t know where he is.”

Louis is frozen, sitting with his knees up, entire body covered in goose-pimples. 

“He’s been taken. We think he might be dead.”

Louis’ vision blacks around the edges, the ringing in his ears so loud he has trouble hearing Nick’s next words. 

“You should get over here. You might be useful. I booked you a flight—I’ve emailed you the details.”

Louis’ chest hurts and he realizes he wasn’t breathing. “Nick—”

“I’ll pick you up at the airport. Bye, Louis.”

He hangs up before Louis can say anything else.  
  
Louis buries his face against his knees, gripping his hair, fighting the urge to scream. After two minutes he checks his email, hands shaking. The plane leaves at 9:05 PM; he has to run. 

Then he remembers that he has a ‘security detail’. He gets the impression this isn’t a sanctioned trip, and he can’t risk being stopped. He needs to get to Arizona. He needs to find Harry. 

Niall pick's up at the second ring. 

“Louis! I was just heading out to the pub. Come with me! It’s just a few mates from work, not a big crowd, promise.”

“Niall, I’m—Please. Could you—” Louis chokes out.

Louis hears the jangle of keys and footsteps.

“I’m on my way. Where are you?”

Louis fights the grateful tears stinging his eyes. “At my apartment.” He manages to take a deep breath. “Could you... could you to take me to airport? Please?”

Niall's footsteps falter. “ _What?_ What’s going on?”

“It’s important. I can’t—I need you to drive me to the airport, please.”

Louis can feel his heartbeat in his throat the stretch of Niall’s silence. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”


	4. Chapter 4

Eventually the team come up with a plan. After the press conference in which they announce they’re definitely dealing with a copycat, making sure to emphasize the 'excellent and exhaustive' work done by the BAU back in August to apprehend Reese. The police station and the hotel are locations that are too high risk for the killer to make a move; Harry has to be accessible, but not so obviously as to rouse suspicion. They decide on sending Harry to the store for a new phone. It’s a legitimate reason for him to be out and about on his own, and an environment they can control: rotation of clients with undercover cops and a police team standing by with Cara, while Azoff and Nick coordinate from the police station.

Harry takes his time getting out of the car, and hems and haws over every phone model he’s shown. He makes chit chat with the salesperson, even when he can tell he’s starting to get on their nerves. As a last resort, Harry lingers outside the store smoking a cigarette after making his purchase, making himself visible, before finally going over to his car. 

In the car he adjusts the seat, then gathers an empty coffee cup, walking over to the nearest bin to throw it out. The team had agreed their killer wouldn’t just shoot Harry; his actions suggested he got off on causing fear and psychological suffering—he wouldn't want it to end so quickly. 

His phone beeps when he slides back behind the wheel. 

**5:28 PM Stop for gas at exit 67. Go out the back. Get in the car.**

It’s from an unknown number. 

Harry bites at the knuckle of his middle finger, staring down at his phone thoughtfully. Then it starts ringing.

“Agent Styles.”

“You think I’ll stop?” A voice hisses. “I’ll leave a trail of bodies for you to follow. And every single person who dies will be on you.”

“Or?” Harry prompts, voice level, almost disinterested.

“Or we can put an end to this. It’s you I want.  This is between you and me.” 

“You think we won’t catch you? You're not a criminal mastermind; you’re a paper pusher with delusions of grandeur.”

Harry makes out a sharp inhalation: an expression of anger. “You might not care about strangers dying. But you’ve got people you care about, don’t you?” The voice is taunting. “I used to have them too. Before. I’m better off without them—but I don’t think you want that, do you?”

There’s a click and the call gets disconnected. Bile rises to Harry’s throat. 

“Shit.” Harry takes a deep breath, runs his fingers to shake out his hair and massages the back of his neck. “OK.”

Harry starts the car and drives out of the parking lot into the road. He grips the steering wheel hard with one hand, holding the phone up to his ear with the ear. “Nick.”

“Well that was a waste of time,” Nick says as a greeting. “He’s smarter than we thought if he isn’t biting.”

“Yeah.” Harry has to trust his team. He knows they’ll find his car... He has to trust they’ll find _him_.  “Hey, I’m going to stop for gas before going back to the station. Exit 67.”

“All... right?” Nick sounds confused. 

Exit 67 is coming up already. There’s no time to call for back-up. And the killer has already proved himself smart enough to smell an ambush.

“I think he might be local. West coast at least,” Harry says quickly. “Divorced or widowed? Maybe an orphan.”

“What? Did you talk to him?” Nick demands. “Harry, what the fuck?

“Check the back,” Harry adds before hanging up.

When he gets to the gas station he straps on his gun, pockets his phone, and heads out back. It’s past 5 PM and with the failing light he can’t see if there’s anyone inside the car parked out behind the convenience store building. His hand is at his gun as the shadow of a man creeps up behind him.

The click of the safety catch of a gun being taken off makes Harry freeze. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

Harry raises his hands slowly up in the air.

“Get in the trunk. Don’t make a scene, now.”

Harry eyes the car. “I’m not sure I’m going to fit,” he says lightly.

He’s not expecting to be tasered. The pain is terrible, and he loses all control of his muscles, falling to the concrete with his jaw clenched to keep from screaming. He’s unable to do anything as someone takes his gun and pulls a cloth bag over his head. He has his wrists tied behind his back and his ankles cuffed before he’s thrown in the trunk.   
  
Harry loses track of time during the car ride. Body aching and heart in his throat, he can tell they take the highway for some time before turning into a gravel path until they stop. The restraints around his ankles are cut so he can walk, packed earth beneath his feet, into what he guesses is an old, abandoned house or some form of storage building, if the smell of dust and the sound of wind whistling through boards doesn’t mislead him. He can’t hear traffic or other sounds of habitation. 

“Sit.” 

He’s shoved onto a hard chair and a length of rough rope looped around his torso. Harry takes a deep breath, muscles tense, while he’s being tied.

Finally, the bag is lifted from his head. Harry gulps in air and squints around him. He was right with his guess. He seems to be in a small barn, exposed beams in the ceiling and windows boarded up. It’s completely empty besides the chair he’s sitting on and a small table with a camping lantern for light.

The man steps in front of him and smiles. 

 

The man likes the sound of his own voice; he talks and talks—twisted words intended to torture Harry. _Those three men. Dead because of you. Your sister. She’s a lone wolf, isn’t she? But such easy prey. And your mom. I’ve been thinking I might like to burn her house down. Lock her inside first, of course._

He never gets too close, though. Circles around Harry at a distance, like he’s afraid or intimidated. 

After a while he leaves and comes back with a glass of water, which he uses to torment Harry further by denying it to him. It entertains him for a bit before he leaves again. This time he doesn’t come back even after Harry’s counted to around two thousand. 

Harry supposes it must be nighttime by the temperature drop, but he’s wide awake. Aching and scared and thinking hard through it all—he’s an FBI agent and his training has him assessing escape plans almost as second nature. He strains against the rope around his chest, trying out the slight give he’d secured himself by expanding his chest and bulging his muscles while he was being tied. It’s still tight, but there’s potential. He also keeps wondering what it is that this man has against him. He’s made no mention of Reese. And he’s made no mention of Louis either.

At some point the man comes back. He holds out a phone—not Harry’s.

“I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Good. I was getting bored.”

A muscle in the man's jaw twitches. “I could shoot you, you know? Right now, I can do anything I want with you.”

Harry stares at him, unflinching. “Could you? Without a blueprint?” he taunts. “All you’ve proven until now is you’re a copycat. Have you ever had an original thought in your life? Were you really surprised you didn’t get into the BAU?”

The man’s face contorts in anger. “Shut up. I got _you_ here!”

“I chose to come here. Because I know you’re all talk. Because I know that the real reason you could never become a field agent is because you don’t have the guts for it.” Harry flexes his fingers, trying to get the feeling back in his hands. “You have to hide behind a phone, or send letters like a child writing to Santa Claus. This is between you and me, you said. I’m here now. Cut me loose and we’ll settle this.”

The man wavers. He’s strong—older than Harry, but also bigger. And Harry’s weak from being tasered and dehydrated, but he’ll take his chances. 

“I would,” the man says after what seems like an internal debate. “But I’m expecting company.”

Harry scoffs. “Of course. I thought you couldn’t pull even _this_ off on your own. Trying to play a game that’s too big for you. Who’s your buddy that’s been holding your hand?”

The man grins and presses a few buttons on the phone. A crackle of static and the sound of breathing tells Harry he’s listening to a recording. 

_“Yes?”_

Harry’s hands clench into fists when he hears Louis’ voice. 

_“Louis. It’s Nick.”_

Harry can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. 

_“It’s Harry. We don’t know where he is. He’s been taken. We think he might be dead. You should get over here. You might be useful. I booked you a flight—I’ve emailed you the details.”_

_“Nick—”_

Harry’s brain is blank except for a stream of ‘no, no, no’. 

_“I’ll pick you up at the airport. Bye, Louis.”_

Harry meets the man’s eyes, struggling to keep himself under control. 

“Nice bit of theater. Was it your buddy who did the sound editing for that piece?” Harry bites out. He knows it’s real. There’s no way to replicate the shuddering, faint sound of Louis’ breathing, the break in his voice when he said Nick’s name. Nick’s voice, though, that had been off.

The man throws the water from the glass in Harry’s face. “Your buddy... he had a gun to his head for his bit. And then a bullet through his brain.”

Harry licks his lips. He _can’t._ He can’t allow himself to be distracted.

The man watches him closely, then speaks again when Harry doesn’t react. “ _My_ buddy... well, I’ve got some dirt on him. Found out he took a bit too long getting rid of child pornography evidence, so he’s eager to help.  You underestimate me, you see.”

Harry catches another drop of water with his tongue. “I’m not impressed, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

The man’s lips curl. “I don’t want to impress you!” he hisses. 

Harry blinks at him. “When you get the courage to face me and settle this. Let me know.”

The man slams the glass on the table and stalks out. He comes back with the cloth bag and stuffs it over Harry’s head again. 

“You’re going to regret this.”

*****

Nick gets a police officer to drive him to the gas station on exit 67, nagging at him to drive faster even after they’ve broken the speed limit. It’s over an hour since he spoke to Harry by the time they arrive.

Harry’s car is parked to the side, where it won’t block the gas pumps, and Nick thinks he’ll use that in the eulogy at Harry’s funeral—along with every single insult he can come up with to describe what a colossal idiot he was. The thought of Harry in the past tense makes Nick furious. 

He marches over round the back. There’s nothing he can see at a first glance, but— 

“We need to get forensics here.”

The police officer, a rookie by the looks of him, looks bewildered. “Sir?”

“Call forensics. Now!” Nick says impatiently. “Then go tell the store manager we need to see their security footage.”

The officer gives him a nervous salute and hurries back to the police car to radio in, while Nick inspects the area more carefully. He's about to head inside when he hears a car close behind him. He doesn’t have time to turn around before he gets a hard blow to the calves, knocking him over. “ _Fuck!_ ”

He rolls to his back, scrabbling for the gun at his hip, hearing quick footsteps as someone gets out of the car that just hit him. Before he can get a good hold on his gun, it’s kicked out of his hand. He doubles over, coughing, at a hard kick to the stomach. Spots of light pop up in Nick’s vision after he’s pistol-whipped.

His attacker takes advantage of it to wrestle Nick’s arms behind his back. 

“C’mon.”

A man, fat and balding, prods him to his feet with a gun pressed to the middle of his back and half drags him into the car, dumping him into the passenger seat. He speeds off, tires shrieking. 

Nick’s head is pounding, but he squints at the man behind the wheel. 

“Don’t I know you?”

“No,” the man says tersely.

Nick tries the plastic ties around his wrists. They’re not as tight as they should be. “I’m good with faces. Good with names.”

The man is drenched in sweat. He drives for some distance, then stops by the side of the road. He doesn’t lock the doors. “Let’s make this quick.”

Nick raises his eyebrows and gets a sharp stab of pain in his head. “What are we doing?”

The man fumbles with his phone. “I’m going to hit this button here, and the red light is going to blink on and you’re going to read what it says here. “ He pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket.

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are.” The man holds the gun to Nick’s temple. Nick can see his hand is shaking.

“I can’t see the writing from here,” Nick says coolly. “Nearsighted.”

The man raises the paper and Nick squints to read it: _Louis. It’s Nick. It’s Harry. We don’t know where he is. He’s been taken. We think he might be dead. You should get over here. You might be useful. I booked you a flight—I’ve emailed you the details. I’ll pick you up at the airport. Bye, Louis._

Nick swears under his breath. 

“Let’s do a trial run,” the man says, digging the muzzle of the gun into Nick’s forehead. Nick reads out the message, stumbling over the words, all the while striving to slip his hands free.

When he’s being recorded, Nick uses the most mechanical voice he can get away with. 

The man lowers the gun, setting it down on the console between them, so he can check the recording. 

Nick gets his fingers to the door handle, tries it out. If he pushes, he can get the door open. 

The man doesn’t seem comfortable with the technology: brow furrowed and tongue between his teeth as he makes sure it’s recorded correctly. “It’ll do, I guess,” he mutters.

Nick gets the door open and headbutts the man in quick succession, catching him by surprise. The man gropes for the gun, but Nick is faster: twisting his legs, he knocks the gun to the back seat and throws himself out of the car, rolling to avoid injury. 

He half expects the man to come out and shoot him, but instead he drives off, passenger door swinging open  before being banged closed. 

Nick watches him drive off, breathing hard. “Fuck.” He scrapes half the skin off his hands in the process, but he gets them free from the zip ties. He reaches for his phone, which is still in his pocket—the man was obviously not an experienced kidnapper—but there’s no signal. “Fucking shit!” 

 

Nick’s been walking for over an hour before a police car picks him up. 

*****

In spite of everything, Harry falls in and out of sleep for a while. Between the brief spells of sleep he works out wriggle room in his restraints, though his arms are half numb.

The man comes back—Harry can hear his footsteps and breathing—but he doesn’t say anything to Harry and doesn’t respond to Harry’s provocation. Harry has no idea what he’s doing, dragging furniture by the sound of it. Harry has no indication of the passage of time; light doesn’t filter through the black cloth bag still over his head. At some point he gets a brief reprieve, when it’s pushed up just enough for the man to hold a glass of water for Harry to drink. It’s not much more than a sip, barely enough to moisten his mouth and throat. 

Harry’s stomach is burning with hunger, and he’s parched with thirst and in pain, as well as lightheaded from lack of fresh air, when he hears noises coming from outside. The door creaks as it’s pushed open and footsteps follow. He recognizes the man murmuring something, but he can’t make out the words. There’s more shuffling and a set of retreating footsteps. Then, after what seems like a lifetime, the cloth bag is removed. 

His vision takes a moment to focus, squinting in the light from the camping lantern. When what he’s looking at sinks in, Harry throws up. The bile burns his mouth and spills over his chin, making him choke a little.

Louis is standing on top of a workbench, at least three feet from the ground, hands tied behind his back and a rope around his neck, the end of the rope tied up on a beam above him. There’s some give to the rope at the moment, but Harry isn’t sure how much. 

“Are you impressed now?” 

Harry has to force himself to take his eyes from Louis, who seems to be drugged or in shock, eyes half-closed and swaying in place. 

“Well?” the man insists when Harry doesn’t answer. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Harry chokes out. 

The man laughs in delight. “But this is just the set-up. Can you guess the game?”

Harry shakes his head jerkily. 

The man puts his hand on the hand crank to adjust the table’s height. It’s a manual crank mechanism instead of electrical, and the lever resists a little—Harry can see the strain of the man’s muscles—before it gives. 

Harry catches Louis’ eye, holding his terrified gaze for a few seconds before his eyes stray up to where the rope is growing taut as the tabletop inches down. 

“That’s enough,” Harry snarls.

The man’s grin makes Harry’s jaw clench so hard his teeth ground together painfully. He raises the tabletop again to its full height. “You see now? Isn’t it fun?”

When the man lowers the tabletop a few inches, Harry studies the rope with baited breath, trying to figure out the length of the rope.

“I thought about using your mom. Or your sister. Would you have preferred that?” Harry doesn’t answer, twisting his shoulders as much as he’s able without calling attention to himself. “But I was curious to meet your little pet project here after I read his file. My wife was crazy too—said I drove her to it! He can’t give you that shit, at least: he was already fucked up before he met you.”

It’s painful to keep himself from looking at Louis who whimpers as the man lowers the tabletop an inch before raising it back to its full height, but Harry forces himself to stare at the man instead. “I’m bored,” he drawls.

The man stiffens in surprise. “What?”

Harry would shrug, but he can’t risk the man noticing how loose the rope around his chest is. “I’m bored,” he repeats. “I wasn’t expecting much, but this is boring.”

A muscle twitches in the man’s jaw. “I could kill him now if like.” He puts his hand on the crank, eyes fixed on Harry, who doesn’t react. When he tries to turn the crank, it gets stuck again.

Harry snorts.

The man pushes at the crank, hard enough that it jerks and gives all of a sudden, making the tabletop drop its full range. It’s a little more than a foot, but the sudden drop is jarring, and Louis cries out before the sound is cut off as the rope goes taut and he’s left standing on his tiptoes to keep from choking, chin tilted up and rope digging into his neck, high up under his jaw. 

Harry swallows back another rush of bile, head buzzing. He clears his throat. “Then what?” he asks the man. “It’ll be just you and me… And you’re afraid of me.”

The man pulls out the gun from under his belt. “I could kill you!” he shouts, aiming at Harry.

“You can’t even come close to me,” Harry counters, deadpan.  

“You stink,” he replies, but he takes a step toward Harry.

Harry scoffs. “Are you going to shoot me from over there? Or is it going to be from behind?”

The man bounds forward and presses the muzzle of the gun between Harry’s eyebrows. “How does it feel to die knowing I’m going to kill everyone you love?” he asks, taking the safety catch off.

Harry sends a prayer to the universe and moves: twisting to slam the heel of his foot into the man’s kneecap. Harry’s chest and shoulders burn when he rises to his feet and pivots, smashing the chair into the man. He knocks over the table with the glass of water, which shatters.

Harry slides out from under the loosened rope while the man is doubled over and kicks the gun out of his lax grip. With one forceful move, he breaks the zip ties, getting his hands free. He can’t help glance up at Louis—who is shaking with the effort to stay up on his tiptoes—before dashing to pick up the gun.

Harry’s just closed his fingers around it when he hears the man lunging at him. They fall to the floor, Harry grunting at the impact and the sudden, sharp pain in his abdomen. He manages to pistol-whip the man and scramble to his feet, bent over at the intense pain. The man starts to rise and Harry raises the gun, but the ringing gun shots catch him by surprise. Harry stares in shock as the man collapses, lit up from the sunlight flooding into the barn all of a sudden. Sunday has just dawned. 

“Nick?” Harry squints at the dark figures rushing inside. Nick, followed by Azoff, both with their guns still raised.

Nick gasps, eyes wide and wild as he takes in the scene. “Oh my _fucking_ God.”

Harry presses a hand to his stomach absently. “Get Louis down, for fuck’s sake. Somebody get him down.”

Nick steps around Harry and hurries to Louis, while Azoff approaches Harry after putting his gun away.

“Harry. You need to lie down now,” Azoff says, surprisingly gentle, a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry tries to shrug him off. “I’m fine,” he mumbles. “I need to—Louis—”

Azoff shushes him and with the help of another police officer Harry hadn’t even noticed, they get him to lie down on the floor. Harry groans when someone presses on his stomach.

“The EMTs will be here in a moment. Just have to finish clearing the area.”

Harry squirms against the unrelenting pressure in his abdomen. “Louis?”

“He’s here. Stay still.” Nick helps Louis kneel down next to Harry, and crouches down at his side, keeping a steadying hand on his back.

Harry shoots him a brief, grateful glance before turning to Louis. His arm feels heavy as he touches his fingertips to Louis’ face. Louis is white-lipped and wide-eyed, his hands like ice when he reaches up to hold Harry’s hand to his cheek.

“Sorry, baby,” Harry slurs.

Louis smooths Harry’s hair back from his forehead with trembling fingers, keeping his eyes on Harry’s.

Harry’s eyelids feel heavy now too. “I think I’m going to take a nap.”

“Really, Harold? Is this the time?” There’s a note of hysteria to Nick’s voice, Harry thinks. But Louis keeps on stroking his hair, and Harry can feel him breathing against his hand, and that’s quite enough for him to feel calm and drowsy.

He hears Azoff saying something, but he can’t make out what.

Then there’s something pulling him away from Louis, wrenching them apart, and Harry wants to fight it, but the world is blurring... and tilting... and fading to black.

*

Harry isn’t surprised to wake up at the hospital. Everything rushes back, and a peek under the blanket and hospital gown shows the bandage over where he’d been stabbed. He’s not alone: Nick is dozing in a chair next to him, long limbs folded awkwardly and mouth open.

Harry drifts off for a bit, and wakes up to find Nick still in his room, but awake and complaining now.

“You’re a fucking piece of work with half a brain, Styles.”

Harry winces, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You haven’t called me Styles since my training days.”

Nick narrows his eyes. “I’ve got a wide selection of things to call you. You’d best go with Styles.”

Harry groans through a chuckle and struggles to sit up a little higher against the pillows. He has some pain in his abdomen, and he feels sore as hell, but not as bad as he’d expect.

“You’re on painkillers,” Nick tells him. “But you’re also a goddamn lucky son of a bastard: the glass cut through muscle and fat and just grazed your liver. A touch of dehydration and some bumps and bruises. That’s it.”

Harry pouts at Nick. “Why do you sound so put out about it?”

Nick’s lips twitch. “You’ve cut ten years off my life with this stunt. I’ll never forgive you.”

Harry’s grin is short-lived. “Where’s Louis?” He’s not sure if _Louis_ will ever forgive him.

“In his room. His Irish friend will bring him by in a bit.”

Niall is Louis’ emergency contact after Harry, but Harry still wants to kiss him for flying all the way from Virginia for Louis.

“Is he—He’s OK?” Harry asks, voice hoarse.

“A bit beat up.” Nick runs his fingers through his hair, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “But broadly speaking… yeah.”

“What does that mean?” Harry demands.

Nick stands up and puts a hand on Harry’s chest. “Calm down—you’ll hurt yourself. He’s fine. It can’t have been comfortable, but he had enough support to keep himself from being strangled.”

Harry relaxes a bit. “Then what is it?”

Nick grimaces. “He just… um… hasn’t said a word. _Wrote_ down his statement, as a matter of fact, but wouldn’t open his mouth. The doctors say his throat is a little bruised, but nothing to stop him from being able to speak.”

Harry looks away from Nick after a long moment and takes a deep breath, his chest aching. “Is he dead?” he asks.

Nick nods. “Richard Teague. Forty-seven. The bastard lived in my neighborhood, if you'll believe it. We got his partner too, one Lucas Collins. He’s in custody: kidnapping, accessory to murder, aggravated assault… and multiple counts of possession of child pornography. He’s not getting out any time soon… or ever.”

Harry clenches and unclenches his fists, ignoring the pinprick of pain from the IV. “How did you find us? What happened to you?” His eyes flit down to the scrapes on Nick’s hands and the butterfly bandages over a cut on his forehead that he’s only just noticed.

“Luck and brains, really. As usual.

“I trusted you were right about someone divorced or widowed, and had Malik pull me the names from our initial pool of suspects in Records Management. An unsurprising amount of men over forty fit the bill. But then I thought it had to be someone who’d quit or was on leave—at his level of commitment, serial killing is a full time job, especially a four hour flight away from Virginia. Azoff suggested we check anyone who might have property in Arizona, not necessarily under his name, though. The house and barn were his ex-wife’s parents’. Cara talked to his wife; the woman was terrified of him, as you can imagine, married for over fifteen years to a tyrannical sadist with anger management issues.”

Harry nods solemnly. “No kids?”

Nick shakes his head. “No, thank goodness.”

“What about his accomplice? He told me he was blackmailing him.”

Nick gives a humorless laugh. “He tried to run, but Cara brought him down. Funnily enough, I recognized him. He used to work in the Crimes Against Children unit.”

Harry’s mouth twists in disgust. “Of course.”

Nick makes a sound of agreement.

“He got the recording from you?” Harry asks quietly.

Nick runs his fingers through his hair again.  “Yeah. I’m... sorry, Harry. About that. I’m really sorry.”

Harry shakes his head. “Don’t be stupid. I’m glad you’re all right—Teague told me you were dead.”

He tells Nick what had happened after he was abducted, and how he’d tried to use Teague’s obvious insecurities and temper to escape. 

Nick puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezes. “You were brilliant, you know.”

“I just don’t get why he targeted _me_. There are fields agents who are more involved in FBI politics—and closer to his age, which makes more sense in terms of seeing them as competition,” Harry says. 

Nick makes a sympathetic face. “He fixated on the Reese case. We’ve found evidence that he followed the case obsessively. He deluded himself into thinking it was going to be his breakthrough, the case that would get him out in the field. Your name and face were the most prominent. We’re a team, but you did really good work on that case and everyone knew about it. So you become the embodiment of all his frustration.”

Harry throws his head back against the pillows, letting his breath out in a huff. “Fucking shit.”

Nick snorts with laughter.  “Gotta love our job.”

Harry’s grin is lopsided. “I should have gone into environmental law. Or stuck to baking.”  
  


The weak attempt at humor doesn’t last long, leaving Harry battling with a mixture of anger at being victimized and guilt at having precipitated three men’s deaths and a traumatic ordeal for Louis. His concern for Louis increases throughout the day, when Azoff and Cara both stop to visit, but Louis does not. 

It’s not until after dinner that Niall brings Louis to see him: in a wheelchair, trailing an IV stand, and wearing a neck brace. Niall gives Harry a careful hug and the two of them exchange a few words before he excuses himself. 

“Lou.”

Louis stares at him for a long moment, then lifts a hand from his lap and rests it on the bed next to Harry’s. Harry takes his hand in his and squeezes, too hard, but he can’t help himself. 

Although it can’t be comfortable with the neck brace, Louis leans forward to pillow his cheek on their entwined hands, his face turned from Harry. He doesn’t say a word.

Harry swallows back a sob. “Louis. Baby, I don’t—I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” 

It’s all he can get out. Harry feels Louis press his lips to Harry’s knuckles, and the tickle of his fingertips as he traces the edge of the bandage on Harry’s wrist. 

“Baby, please say something,” Harry whimpers. “Please look at me.”

“I thought you were dead. And then I thought you were doing to die.” Louis doesn’t lift or turn his head, and his voice is so low Harry has to strain his ears to hear him.

“Did... did anyone explain to you? What happened?” he asks.

Louis makes a faint sound of assent. “Nick talked to me. Apologized, too. Not that he had to: he called me as soon as he could, but I’d already boarded. And that man, Collins, jumped me as soon as I got off the plane.”

The images that phrase inspires have Harry biting his lip hard to stop himself from crying. “He said you weren’t speaking,” he says after a moment.

Louis still won’t look up at him. “I wasn’t,” he replies simply.

Harry strokes his hair with his free hand. He opens his mouth, even though he doesn’t know what he can say to make it better, but Louis speaks first. 

“I was scared. For you. And for me,” he confesses. “But, the truth is... it’s not that different—the dreams and the reality of it. I’ve lived through worse? Technically? I don’t know.”

Harry realizes his hand has gone still and he resumes petting Louis’ hair, his heart in his throat at his words.

“I’ve _died_ before. I’ve been tortured and murdered... countless times. I’ve tried to kill myself. And—” Louis finally lifts his head to look at Harry. “And yet nothing hurt worse than when I thought I’d lost you.” 

Harry’s eyes fill with tears. “Louis—”

Louis brings Harry’s hand to his cheek and kisses his knuckles. “You’re a proper FBI agent now that you’ve been stabbed.”

A strangled laugh bursts from Harry’s mouth. “I love you,” he sobs.

He can’t see well through the blur of tears, but he feels Louis’ smile against his palm. “I love you too.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

“We're celebrating our first anniversary,” Harry brags to the waiter, who gives them polite congratulations as he sets down their cocktails.

Louis hides a smile against Harry’s shoulder. “Are you going to tell everyone?”

Harry cups his jaw and presses their lips together. “Probably. If that’s OK with you.”

Louis leans in to kiss him again, a quick peck. “Keep the cocktails coming and we’re good.”

Harry laughs, accidentally spilling some of his drink on Louis’ chest; he leans in to lick the droplets off his collarbones automatically.

Louis half-heartedly pushes him off, tugging at his hair, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “At least if people know we’re celebrating our anniversary the matching turtle shorts make a bit more sense.”

Harry cackles. “It was your idea!”

Louis tilts his head back lazily against the beach lounger they’re sharing, his smile soft. “Definitely not,” he teases.

Harry makes a show of his mock indignation, even puts down his drink so he can tickle Louis’ sides, smooth and warm from the sun.

Louis squirms, giggling. “And somehow you managed to sneak in matching flipflops and towels too!”

Harry pulls him into a tight hug, holding him close. Louis squeaks out a breathless protest, but doesn’t pull away. Instead he buries his nose against Harry’s neck and slips a hand free from between their bodies to clutch at Harry’s back.

Harry’s been working on stuff in the three months since Teague, but this—his sudden, overwhelming impulse to hold Louis close sometimes—isn’t one of his priorities. And his therapist agrees.

Harry had bounced back quickly after his abduction, because it was his job and his training. But his talk with Azoff and his mother’s concern had convinced him to give therapy a real chance, to actually work with his therapist instead of just saying what he was supposed to to get him off his back. And it helped.

If nothing else, at least, it helped him help Louis, who refused to see anyone because he claimed he wouldn’t get anything out of it if he couldn’t talk about the cause of his issues. Harry couldn’t refute that logic, but he still tried, every once in a while, to coax him into talking to a professional, at least to help him manage his anxiety and the associated disordered eating habits he had.

Because Harry worried. Even though Louis was still working at the store, and taking on some new students; even though he went out and hung out with other people besides Harry; even though there had been a respite in the dreams and disassociative episodes. Harry worried because Louis was fine... except when he wasn’t.

He was more nervous around people—as bad as when they had first met. He was tense and jumpy whenever they went out at night, clinging to Harry. And he frequently went mute around service workers, so that he couldn't do the shopping or order out. He also refused to step foot into BAU headquarters. And more than once Harry had caught him crying in the shower; had heard him as he walked down the hall: wracking sobs over the rush of water.

Harry’s therapist insisted there was little he could do except be patient and show Louis love. So that’s what he did.

“Want to go for a quick dip?” Harry murmurs into Louis’ ear.

Louis brings him in for a quick kiss after they untangle themselves. Then he studies the area, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against Harry’s chest. The beach is practically empty, though, a picture of gold and purple in the sunset.

“You’ll try out if the water is warm before?” Louis asks with a winning grin.

Harry gets to his feet, laughing, and pulls Louis up with him. “Yes. But I can’t promise I won’t lie!”

***

Louis knew Harry indulged him: when Louis sidled up to his side, bundled up in his towel against the slight evening chill, Harry pulled him closer and kept his hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing soothing circles, the whole time as they walked back to their cabin. They had also done their research on the location for their vacation, making sure it was a quiet spot close to the beach, with individual cottages instead of a hotel.

Louis didn’t need Liam to tell him he was being ‘needy’.

The events of the year before with Turner had been frightening, but in the end it had felt somehow purposeful. It had allowed Barbara to escape Turner, after all. And it had led him to Harry.

What had happened in January, however, was just painful. A painful reminder of how he was useless to protect anyone, and how easily he could be rendered helpless: when he had arrived at the airport, Collins had flashed his badge at him and gripped his arm and Louis had been powerless to resist him, incapacitated by his abnormal perception. It had also been a reminder of the ugliness in the world. Louis was no stranger to it, but he had fooled himself into an illusion of safety surrounding Virginia and the FBI… and that illusion had been shattered.

All Louis wanted after this relearning was to hide from the world. But even as he forced himself not to give in to that impulse and continue on with his life, he couldn’t control the instinctual recoiling from anything that might be painful. It wasn’t a conscious avoidance, his body betrayed him: he shrank away from people and found himself unable to speak at times.

And now, on the third night of their vacation, with Harry slipping his hands under Louis’ towel the moment they step inside their cottage, and kissing his neck with obvious intent, Louis’ body is betraying him too, making his heart race and his mouth go dry from nerves.

Sex at home wasn’t a problem, and Harry’s childhood home was an extension of Harry. But their handful of weekend escapades throughout the year hadn’t included sex. And the cottage was no different to a hotel or motel room. It was an unknown place and a risk.

“Is this OK?” Harry asks, pulling back to look at Louis in the face, running his hands up and down Louis’ naked back.

Louis thinks Harry’s attempts to relax and comfort him are unconscious by now. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of Harry’s swimming shorts. “Yeah. Definitely.”

A wide smile spreads across Harry’s face. “Definitely?” he asks playfully before leaning in to capture Louis’ mouth in a long kiss.

Louis can do this. “It’s our first proper vacation just the two of us. We can’t _not_ have sex, Harold,” he says when they break apart, tweaking one of Harry’s nipples.

Harry lets out a giggle, but he settles his hands on the low of Louis’ back and makes careful eye contact. “Not having sex is always an option.”

Louis swallows thickly and nods. “OK,” he says quietly. “But I want to.”

And he _does_. Not just because he doesn’t want to disappoint Harry, but for himself. He wants to have sex in the bedroom with the ocean view and the king sized bed on their vacation to celebrate their anniversary. He wants that with Harry.

Louis gets on his tiptoes to kiss Harry while burying his fingers in his hair, still damp and stiff from the salt water.

“What do you want?” Harry asks, bending down a little, his hands on the backs of Louis’ thighs in clear invitation.

Louis lets Harry pick him up, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist. He don’t care; all he wants at the moment is for it not to hurt. “Whatever you want,” he replies between wet, open-mouthed kisses to Harry’s neck and chest, as Harry walks them to the bedroom. “Just don’t—”

Harry lowers him onto the bed, holding himself on his hands over Louis. “Don’t what, baby?”

Louis reaches up to thumb at Harry’s plump lower lip, cradling his jaw. “Don’t stop touching me.”

Harry groans and leans down to kiss him hard, grinding their lower bodies together. “Turn around,” he says, panting.

Louis rolls onto his belly, tugging down his swimming shorts in the process, though Harry pulls them down his thighs and off when the material clings and resists.

Harry’s hands feel hot against the cool, damp skin when he palms Louis’ ass, encouraging Louis to get up on his knees. Louis rests his head on his forearms with his eyes closed, heart hammering in his chest.

“Haven’t done this in too long,” Harry says, kissing down Louis’ spine.

The fact that it’s been maybe two weeks at most since Harry last ate him out, along with the tickle of his scarce stubble on the sensitive skin of his lower back, pulls a small, shivery laugh out of Louis.

“Get on with it, then.” Louis’ voice shakes, but Harry doesn’t call him out on it. He presses a last kiss to the very bottom of Louis’ spine before spreading him open and getting his mouth on Louis’ hole.

It’s good. It’s so good Louis leaves indentations of his teeth on his fingers, biting down even as he moans high in his throat. And it’s just Harry. Harry and the smell of the ocean and wet sand. Which is why it doesn't make sense why all Louis can think about is how this feels like this is the last time they’re going to do this... like it’s all going to go to hell after.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. His body is reacting to Harry, cock hard between his legs, but there’s a pressure in his chest that’s foreign and Louis keeps trying to push it back. That feeling isn’t about _them_.

Tears spring to his eyes when Harry stops. “Louis?”

“Why’d you stop?” Louis whimpers.

“You’re shaking. Not in a good way,” Harry whispers, sitting behind Louis, a grounding hand on his thigh.

Louis takes a deep breath. “Can we… face to face?” He turns onto his back, leaning on his elbows. “Need to see you. Please.”

Harry squeezes his ankle. “Of course, baby. Do you want my hand or—”

Louis shakes his head quickly. “Want you inside.” He shifts back to lie against the pillows, legs spread, and reaches down to thumb at the head of his cock before trailing down to tease his spit-slick hole with two fingers while holding’s Harry’s intent gaze.

Harry makes an inarticulate sound in his throat as he hurries to wrestle out of his shorts and fetch the bottle of lube. “Let me take care of you.”

Louis doesn’t let himself think about how all Harry does is take care of him. He lies flat on his back, and lets Harry hook his left leg over his elbow to keep his legs spread as he fingers Louis open. The room is in gloom, the last bit of daylight coming in through the windows allowing Louis to focus on Harry, to commit to memory how his front teeth dig into his bottom lip and his forehead wrinkles when he’s concentrating.

“Harry, please,” he begs when he can’t take the distance between them any more.

“OK.” Harry licks his lips as he pulls his fingers out of Louis to guide his cock in instead. “OK.”

Louis clutches at Harry’s shoulders as Harry starts moving inside him. Harry’s cock doesn’t let him feel anything but full and stretched and— “So fucking good, Harry.”

Harry’s breathing hard, eyes fixed on Louis. “So good. Fuck,” he echoes.

Harry drags it on as much as he can, Louis can tell. Louis is almost lightheaded and weak with pleasure when he comes, clenching around Harry’s cock.

“Let me feel you,” Louis slurs.

Harry pushes in again, fingers tight on Louis’ hips, and comes, gasping against Louis’ mouth.

 

It’s not until almost a half hour later, once they’ve cleaned up and settled for a nightcap on the veranda, that Harry asks.

Louis tugs the sleeves of his light jumper down to his fingers. “A couple must have had a bad breakup here.”

Harry takes his hands, warming up his fingertips. “Are you worrying about that, though? Us breaking up?” he asks, perceptive as usual.

Louis dips his chin to chest. “I’d never leave you.”

"But you think I'd leave _you_." Harry presses a kiss to the inside of his wrists, one after the other. “I must be doing something wrong, if it’s not obvious how much I love you, how in love with you I am.”

Louis reaches out to stroke Harry’s face. “No, no. It’s just—I’d understand if you did—” His voice breaks. “Leave me.”

“Louis.” Harry waits until Louis looks up at him to continue. “I was thinking of asking for a transfer. For a desk job.”

“What? Why!?” Louis straightens up with a frown.

“Because I know I have a job that puts a strain on relationships. Because I know it's difficult for a field agent's spouse.” Louis’ heart flip flops at the word ‘spouse’.

His shock must show on his face because Harry blushes. “I wouldn’t have to travel so much. And it’d be a lot less dangerous.”

Louis is tempted. A part of him wants nothing more than to beg Harry to do it. No more nights alone. No more agonizing about Harry being in mortal danger half the time. Louis is selfish, but not as much as all that. “You can’t do that. Not for me.”

Harry looks into his eyes, unwavering. “I’d do anything for you.”

Louis shakes his head, holding back tears. “You’re good at your job. It’s what you want to do. I want you to do what makes you happy.”

Harry thumbs at the tears clinging to Louis’ eyelashes. “ _You_ make me happy.”

Louis lets out a strangled combination of sob and laugh. “You can do me too.” The warmth in his chest spreads when Harry giggles. “You’re just getting started, love. You can’t throw your career out like that.”

Harry tilts Louis’ chin up to brush their lips together. “Well. We’ll see. Maybe not now, then. But in the future... I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

Louis hiccups a laugh and rolls his eyes. “You’re not the one who’s going to be thirty next year.”

Harry gives a pretend shudder, face comically horrified, and cackles when Louis elbows him in the chest. “Early retirement, though. That’s happening no matter what,” Harry says in a dreamy tone. “We’ll get a house with a private beach in California.”

Louis can’t contain his grin. “We’re going to be rich, are we?”

Harry makes a face. “All right... so we’ll get a small house by the beach in some quiet, small, seaside town.”

Before Harry, Louis had lived between the present and the past, unable to visualize any future. But now he can. Harry’s thinking about the rest of their lives together, painting a picture, a future that Louis wants... and that he can actually see. He smiles at Harry, and kisses him again. “I like that idea,” he says softly.

*

Harry parks the car under the dappled shade of a tree, still green in the late summer. They both unbuckle their seatbelts, and Harry even pushes the driver’s seat back.

“Thanks for driving me,” Louis says.

“Of course, Lou.” Harry rests a hand on Louis’ thigh and gives it a squeeze. “You still want to do this?”

Louis considers, keeping his head down as he plays with Harry’s fingers. He rubs the pad of his thumb over his ring finger, and smiles shyly when Harry catches his eye.

Harry draws Louis in with a hand on the back of his neck. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he murmurs against Louis’ lips.

“I’ll get proper spousal benefits, finally.” Louis giggles at Harry’s playful pout and pecks his puckered lips. “I love you.”

Harry grins and pulls him into a proper kiss. “Love you too.”

Louis checks the time when they break apart: 8:45 AM. “I should go inside.”

“Want me to go with you?”

Louis shakes his head. “I’ll be OK. I like knowing you’ll be here when I run out screaming.”

Harry pats his thigh. “I don’t think they’re going to tell you about Roswell just yet, baby.”

Louis laughs. “Of course not; that’s probably a completely different department.”

“Right. My bad.” Harry chuckles.

Louis’ smile fades as he worries hit bottom lip between his teeth. “Hug, please?” he asks after a moment.

Harry folds him into a hug, pulling Louis half on top of him with his legs over the console. He holds him until Louis feels strong enough to pull back.

“Thanks,” he whispers, opening the door and putting one leg out.

“I’ll be right here,” Harry says, serious now.

Louis nods. “And we’ll get waffles after.”

Harry finds Louis’ hand and gives it a final squeeze. “Can’t do without a second breakfast.”

Louis walks inside the FBI headquarters building twisting his fingers in the hem of jumper. When he gives his contact’s name at the front desk, the receptionist smiles at him.

“She’s expecting you,” she says. “I’ll walk you to her office.”

She takes him to the first floor, down the hall, bright with early morning sunlight. She stops at a door marked with a sign that reads Department P. Louis feels laughter bubbling in his chest, thinking about Zayn and his comment about the X-Men. Louis is not a superhero, and he doesn’t want to be. But there are people he can talk to here. Louis can’t sit down with just any counselor, but he’s been put in touch with a trained therapist who works in the FBI’s Paranormal Division. He thinks it might help him. He owes it to Harry to try. He owes it to himself.

At the end of the corridor, to the right, as the receptionist instructed him, he finds a door. It’s standing open. Louis knocks on the door frame and peeks in. The room inside looks like any therapist’s office, and the middle aged woman behind the desk smiles as she stands up to greet him.

“Welcome.” She doesn’t thrust out her hand or touch him. Instead she asks, “Are you all right with touching? Would you like to shake hands or would you prefer not to?”

Louis hesitates.

“Either way is fine here,” she says kindly. “Maybe next time?”

Louis bites his lip then holds out his hand. “No, it’s... it’s nice to meet you, Dr. Garland.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Louis.”

When their hands touch, Louis gets nothing. He feels safe.

 


End file.
